


Look. Learn. Remember.

by Dawnshadow



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian Urianger, Beware Headcanon, Canon Divergence, FFIV References, Fun with Fae, M/M, Make Sure You Have Your Permission Slips For This Feels Trip, Mood Whiplash, Qestir Warrior of Light, Slow Burn, Some Tags Omitted to Avoid Spoilers, Spoilers for All Content Including Eden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnshadow/pseuds/Dawnshadow
Summary: Elidibus has long been impressed by Urianger-- both his intellect and his sheer potential-- and after discovering the results of the Eden project decides he's too powerful and too dangerous to be left as he is. He thought that converting the Archon to the service of his god would simplify matters.It wouldn't take long for him to realize how wrong that notion was.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Elidibus
Comments: 23
Kudos: 43





	1. In Which There Is Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This story diverges from canon after the conclusion of the Shadowbringers launch MSQ and was started before the release of 5.2; it takes place shortly after the events of patch 5.1. However, Elidibus has not chosen the Warriors of Light plan. The first part of Eden has happened and is integral to this story.  
> The rating is not set in stone and will be adjusted as content demands.
> 
> This is not strictly in continuity with Two Scions, but the entries about Urianger's time with Elidibus in that series (The Final Gift, Ether, Faith) in particular may serve to illuminate my broader headcanon on how they interacted during Heavenward.
> 
> Thank you to Asch for reviewing my Uriangish/early modern English and the [Emet-Selch Book Club](https://discord.gg/rQzRDVC) for letting me ping ideas and snippets off their heads and generally being encouraging.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elidibus discovers a lake, plays games with the pixies, and has a tea party with his old friend Urianger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters of this story were revised following the release of 5.2 to incorporate a few new elements of canon that I felt needed to be added; these changes have not substantially changed the plot and mostly are refinements to Elidibus' PoV passages. The original version of these chapters have been preserved unedited as Appendices I and II.

For a moment, Elidibus thought he'd found the source of the disturbance he'd been sensing. He cautiously lowered the aetheric shields just enough to let him _sense._ To feel the ambient aether. The overwhelming Light of the Empty numbed him, tempting the aether that made up his form to a rest without end. He swiftly studied the aether before he was forced to once more raise them against the power that had all but enveloped this Star, making note that he might need take a host—a living host, one whose dormant soul would serve to protect his own from the Light— if he intended to spend much more time on this particular curiosity. It wasn't a habit he favored (unlike Lahabrea, he'd never been able to entirely put aside his pity for the fragmented souls whose flesh they borrowed) but there were times when circumstances demanded such extreme measures.

The further investigation of a peculiarity such as this just might be one of them.

Inexplicably, there was a _lake_ in the midst of the Empty—and his senses had confirmed his suspicions. Something had stirred the aether in this region, aspected it to water. It resonated; doubtlessly it would transfigure the stagnant aether the Star over in similar locations, and from there—in time— it would be as if the Flood had never happened, presuming that the process was, indeed, repeated with the other elements.

Oh, this had promise. And so he was left with two questions-- _Who_ and _how--_ and he suspected he knew the answer to the first. Of all the fragmented souls on this Star, he knew of one in particular that showed such potential... and who had quite a thorough theoretical grounding on what a Flood entailed. Elidibus had personally ensured his understanding, after all.

He lowered his shields once again, tracing out with the Gift this time along the flow of Water until he reached the source of this disturbance. He flinched at the overwhelming sense of Her accursed grace, nearly drowning out anything else the Gift might have imparted. But then, in an area shadowed from the overwhelming Light, he found what he sought. Impressions. The crackling of parchment yellow with age, the heat of the sun on desert sand.

It was all the answer he needed. He turned from the aberrant lake and started to make his way back to civilization.

\- - -

It proved not difficult to find Urianger, once he'd claimed a suitable corporeal form. There were few enough "elves" who spoke as he did and traveled in the company of the Warrior of Darkness, even if his source had (quite understandably) seemed to have mistaken the elezen for an ancient sorcerer. Quite the colorful tales they had to tell of him, and Elidibus could not help but wonder how distorted they had become in the telling—they said the blessing of the fey was on his tongue and that even the mighty Talos heeded his commands.

That left only the difficulty of reaching Urianger's home. The land in which he was said to reside was blanketed in a thick fog today, leaving only the shadowed hint of distant hills. The Gift sang of life flitting somewhere in the fog, not too terribly far away; he chose to disregard it for now in favor of following the path... one that seemed quite long, now that he considered it. They'd said the home was just off the path... north? Or had it been east?

He scowled, realizing the _unnatural_ nature of the fog which enveloped him, and invoked the Gift. Reached out to the souls he sensed and _tugged_ at the aether which cloaked them.

A sweet laugh resounded as the fog started to clear. "Clever, to undo our spell. And your soul is a queer one, indeed. What is your name?"

Elidibus frowned, peering, seeing a shape vague through the thinning fog. Small, winged. "I am called Elidibus," he answered. "I've come to seek out a certain elf that I hope is known to you."

"Oh, that is not _your_ name, ancient one. But titles have power, too. Perhaps I'll keep yours~"

The Emissary stared them down. He remembered the Creation of pixies, the first one. An accident, that. A grieving parent, their soul crying out in a pain that so clearly resonated even now—even in the most glorious days of Amaurot, accidents had occasionally happened. (The one who then held the title of Emet-Selch—blessed by the Star with two children, herself—had retired within the year.)

The pixie stared back, undeterred. "And what's this you seek? An elf? How very curious. This used to be the land of elves... but they don't live here anymore. The Flood stole them, one and all, and we came in their place."

"This one is... different. His name is Urianger—we once worked together." Even if it hadn't quite ended the way the Emissary had intended.

"Urianger? You're one of _his_ friends? Oh, they're so much fun to play with! Maybe I could have _you_ trade clothes with someone."

The Emissary hesitated (and wondered if they were serious about the suggestion.)

"Well?" the pixie asked.

"I would hesitate to call him a _friend_." No. He wasn't entirely certain how to explain his relationship with the scholar in any simple terms. Not enemies, he hoped; even now he looked fondly back upon their lessons and debates (and how very often the two had blurred—at times it had reminded him so keenly of the days _before_ that his soul ached with the longing for His will to be carried out all the more swiftly.) How readily the man had absorbed the information the Emissary had offered and adeptly probed at it, inquiring and pulling until he'd fully understood each facet of it, then unflinchingly questioned it until he felt he knew the truth of it. But they did not currently stand as allies, unfortunately; in the end, Urianger's blind devotion—to his teacher, to his mortal companions-- had proven stronger than logic and reason. "I have an interest in his research."

"That sounds boring. All those musty, dusty, moldy books. We should play a game, instead!"

"That will not be—" he started to protest, only to find the pixie left him with no choice.

\- - -

Urianger had expected him.

The circumstances which had led to their current travails aside, the cards had been warning him of the coming balance between Light and Darkness for days, now. He was full glad that he had interpreted that as he ought to have, rather than in a more literal fashion that would, nonetheless, be more than reasonable on a Star beset with the conflict between the two, as this one was.

It had taken but a stern warning that the pixies _not_ attempt to play games with the man in crimson mask and robes of white to ensure a diversion was in place.

"Are you quite certain you'll be all right alone, Urianger?" Thancred was frowning. They'd both agreed that allowing Elidibus near the young woman Urianger suspected to be Ryne's dark counterpart (or—for that matter—near Ryne herself) would be folly. For some small mercy, the Ascians had a long-standing habit of poor communication, and Urianger could only pray that it carried over to this situation and that the Emissary was not aware of her present condition. The Night's Blessed were certainly both capable and willing caretakers, should she want for healing or protection, and Y'shtola had been more than happy to offer succor on their behalf.

"I am certain." Urianger smiled at Thancred, attempting to reassure him (knowing well that it would accomplish no such thing.) "Thou wouldst do well to remember that I spent nigh on a year in his presence—if intermittently— in the past. Had he any desire to seek retribution for mine actions regarding the Warriors of this Star, he would doubtlessly have already sought me out whilst the Champion and most of our allies were engaged in distant lands, unable to come to mine aid. I do not believe he intendeth harm unto me."

"What do you think he wants from you, then?"

"That, I know not." Urianger looked around the house. He'd managed to stabilize the developing auracite—now a shard barely the size of his thumb—enough that it could be sent to the Crystarium for safekeeping, along with some of the more sensitive research and documents he'd been working on. "I pray it is only to once again attempt to win me over, or mayhaps to draw what information that is possible from me." And in doing so also offer Urianger the opportunity to draw information from him. Elidibus was a fascinating man—intelligent, immensely knowledgeable and oft eager to share his knowledge—and Urianger often found himself regretting that they stood on opposing sides of this conflict.

Thancred reached up to pat his shoulder, his expression still one of greatest concern, e'en though he tried to cloak it. "Well, you'll have a chance to put your skills at deception to good use this time." His hand lingered. "I swear, I need to get my hands on more whisperweed."

"'Twould be a tool most useful to us. But have faith. I am full capable of handling myself." He pulled Thancred into a tight, if brief, hug—another vain attempt to comfort him. "I suspect this will be far more trying for thou than for me."

Thancred's expression left little room to doubt that he agreed. He looked at Urianger, seeming as if he wished to say something more, then after some seconds turned away. "I'll be in Slitherbloom if you need me. Please, don't hesitate to send word."

"Of course."

The pixies had, of course, explicitly defied Urianger's suggestion to leave the Emissary be. He was—when Urianger found him—staring at one of the bush-people with an air of utter dismay. (Their fate was most unfortunate, but freeing them was beyond Urianger's current capabilities. And no few had been changed in the midst of being overaspected by Light; to free them from the verdant curse would be only to allow the transformation to continue, should it be done before they had means to correct it.)

Urianger opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling the effervescent impression of fae magic at work, the word he was searching for slipping out of reach. One of their games, doubtlessly. "Emissary."

The Emissary turned to look at him. "Archon." His tone sounded distinctly surprised. Odd; doubtlessly he knew who he came here to meet. "It's been some time. You—those robes suit you well." No, those words were not spoken in ire; far from it. His sharpest concerns eased, Urianger turned to his next task—ending whatever game Sigun Ul had somehow coaxed Elidibus into.

"Thou hast unquestionably had thy fun, Sigun Ul. But I would now request a turn to 'play' with my _guest_. Prithee, return that which has been borrowed, and we will be on our way."

"No. He _gave me_ his title. It's mine now." Sigun Ul looked at Urianger with an utterly _petulant_ expression.

"To bear a title is to bear _responsibility_ ," Urianger warned. "Thou wilt be full responsible for his duties, and left with little time to play."

The pixie scowled. "But—no time for play? Feh, I don't want it, then."

Elidibus looked distinctly relieved. "Thank you, Archon." He sounded most sincere. "If I may... I have a few questions for you about some phenomena I've observed. Do you have anywhere we could go to speak of such?"

\- - -

Elidibus had expected Urianger’s abode to be far neater. Stacks of books were scattered about the large main room like fallen autumn leaves. Urianger moved a stack off a chair—setting it on a nearby, mostly-clear table—and motioned for Elidibus to sit. "Prithee, make thyself comfortable. Doubtlessly the pixies hath once more burdened me with their tricks—old, sodden leaves and even more of the pastries I so loathe. Nevertheless, 'twould be the highest insult to their hospitality to refuse these questionable gifts." He swiftly dragged another chair over—Elidibus wondered if he'd always been so elegant under the heavy robes—then came with a teapot that steamed fragrantly and a tray of what appeared to be turnovers, setting both in a clear area of the table

Urianger sat down, poured himself a cup of tea, then added a dollop of honey from a small crock before sipping it, making a disgusted face. "...alas, as foul as ever it was. Mayhaps thou wouldst be willing to share the burden? While distasteful, 'tis harmless."

Elidibus looked at the teapot and remaining empty cup, then back at Urianger, utterly perplexed. What was the purpose of this...? Was the Archon somehow testing him?

Urianger looked back at him, clearly waiting for his next action.

Elidibus poured himself a cup of tea, added honey just as Urianger had, stirred, and sipped it, bracing himself. The flavor was light, floral, quite pleasant actually, and he realized in that moment the clever nature of this prank. He forced a wince to cover the urge to laugh. "Foul, indeed. I'm sorry that they keep pulling such a cruel trick on you. I'd be more than happy to help you drink this... leaf-water... while we talk." He took a turnover, breaking it open to reveal the bright crimson filling before tasting it cautiously. "Rolanberry jam... I wonder if they knew how I hated them?"

Urianger nodded solemnly, expression betraying no amusement whatsoever. "Vile, without question." He, too, took a turnover and settled back in his own chair to _not enjoy_ a pastry. "Now... might I inquire as to what observations brought thee here?"

Elidibus nodded. "I sensed a disturbance in the Empty, and—upon investigation—found that some of the stagnant aether had been stirred back into motion. This has quite promising implications, and I can think of few minds so keen as yours. Know you anything about this phenomenon?"

Urianger looked at him, then took a long sip of the tea before he deigned to answer. "Yes. 'Twas my theory, proven true, that led to this development. Although with thine aims considered, it seemeth strange that thou wouldst find this a positive development."

Of course it was—if the Empty could be restored, then perhaps there was some hope for the Thirteenth to be restored enough that its aether—and, with it, the Shard of his God imprisoned within— could be Rejoined. "The First is, for the moment, no longer ripe for Rejoining. Stabilizing it is paramount."

".... before thy next attempt?" Urianger looked less than pleased at the prospect. Elidibus could hardly blame him, after all the effort he'd put into preserving it.

"It _must_ be done... as I've told you before, Archon. May I ask how you managed this feat?"

"'Twas simple enough. I needed only to see to it that the aether was absorbed by an aspected entity, then released back into the First in the correct place, according to the native aetherflows. The answer is one that thine own kind hath passed unto mortals: the summoning of Primals."

Elidibus frowned, looking at Urianger, sensing his Aether. He detected no taint on it, no sense that he'd been tempered, which meant that—while he was doubtlessly capable of such—he likely hadn't been the summoner. "Summoned by whom?"

"Hydaelyn's Champion, of course." Urianger grinned softly. "After all, their soul is immune to the claims of Primals, and they _are_ our Eikon-slayer. Our primary objection to Primals is their absorption of life-giving Aether, which—in this case—was instead our aim. So I watched from a safe distance as the Champion conjured and destroyed their own manifestations of the Primals they battled on the Source, and with each summoning converted a little more of the aether."

"That would correct some measure of the imbalance, but the elemental energy would still have been incredibly tilted toward what is—on the Source—called an umbral alignment. How did you overcome that?"

"I developed a device that stirreth energies around it toward the Astral. And, with this, I started a chain reaction that— I hope— should serve to stir the energy in like regions."

The theory utterly violated _several_ natural laws dictating the behavior of Aether—doubtlessly the Archon was aware of this. Yet the results were undeniable... which meant that his explanation was very likely a half-truth. But how to draw the rest out of him? Elidibus watched him as he sipped his tea. "Very well." And he reached out with the Gift—mayhaps it would reveal what the Archon did not.

> _the world was aflame, beset by nightmare made flesh, devouring, consuming; the screams of those who fled in vain, for where was safe at the end of all things?_
> 
> _ash in the air, the smell of burning wood and burning dreams as all came undone; what had cruel fate wrought upon those innocent souls who had known only peace and plenty?_

How? HOW? Those were not memories Urianger _could_ have—not so clearly, so distinctly! Elidibus scarce registered that he'd dropped his tea, that his talons now dug into the arms of the chair and the cup lay in pieces on the floor.

"Emissary--?" Urianger asked. His hand settled on Elidibus' shoulder, and Elidibus breathed deeply, fought to center himself.

"How?" Elidibus rasped, once he trusted his voice.

"Pardon?"

"You saw it. The end. How— Your memory should be faint, a mere _echo_ of what truly was—"

"I recall it not. Yet I was given the opportunity to bear witness to it, or at least a reconstruction of such. Thy colleague was quite adept with aetheric constructs." Hesitantly, Urianger touched Elidibus' cheek, just below the mask. "Adept enough to create an illusion of thy homeland 'neath the waves of this Star, built on the skeletons of what little did remain. And in accepting his invitation to his lair did we come to bear witness to the recreation of the final days of a world not yet broken, and in doing so come to understand his aims... his and thine."

"And, despite understanding them, you defy them? You do not see how this is what _must_ come to pass?"

"I know well that thou art tempered, and that thou hast, regrettably, little choice in the matter. But what would thy brethren say, those who chose of their free wills to die so that others may live, if they knew thy schemes? To sentence twelve and two worlds and every life upon them to doom. To foment pain and strife repeatedly over thousands of mortal lifetimes, simply so that their gift _might_ one day be returned unto them? Speak, and truly: would they support thine actions, Emissary?"

"It was their desire that the world be _saved,_ Archon. Not broken into this mockery. While your sundered souls... some few of them, at least, have proven unexpectedly promising, it is only in the Ardor that we will restore the world that ought to have been, ere it grows too late. The mortal, sundered lives will end a few decades early, that's true. But your souls will endure, and know new life Rejoined as they always should have been. As will all lives that follow, and ever after will the world be whole."

"And how much knowledge will be lost? How many stories, how many memories?" Urianger sighed, turning away from him for the moment.

"No civilization is eternal. In time, all returns to dust. You fight the restoration of the universe over such ephemeral things, Archon, and I do not understand it."

"...and I wish I knew the words to explain in a way thou couldst understand, even branded by thy god as thou art." Urianger knelt and picked up the pieces of the teacup, careful of the sharp edges. Elidibus watched him, considering his next move carefully. A spark of an idea had come to mind... a way to resolve every problem the clever Archon presented, should he prove capable. The vision of Amaurot had failed to awaken the potential Elidibus was certain slept within him, but it was so for no few Ancient souls—some had been ensconced within the Aethereal Sea during the Final Days, one life ended and the next yet to begin. Others had perished before the true horrors awakened. It was far more difficult to find a way to stir those memories without the common trigger.

"I'm sorry about the cup. And propose an experiment as way of apology." It was doubtlessly something Urianger's inquisitive mind would be interested in, and given his propensity for magic and the ways of eld, Elidibus suspected it would not fail to stir something within him.

Urianger looked at him with a curious expression. "I beg thee to elaborate."

"I've long wondered if the Sundered had the _capacity_ for the magic of Creation, even lacking the raw aether. Not the bastardized adaptation used for the creation of Primals, but the true magic, as we used it then, as you doubtlessly observed."

"Learning such a technique would without question be in my interest, and I dare say it might serve to convince thee of my viewpoint should I succeed. What would be my source of aether for this feat?"

"I can supply it, Archon, if you're willing to trust me with such contact."

Urianger looked him over... frowned faintly, then nodded, his curiosity winning out over his caution. "What need I do?"

Elidibus moved to stand behind him, resting hands on his shoulders, at this close distance noticing that the chains and charms that dangled from him were embellished in his own colors—white and crimson. What fascinating symbolism the Archon's clothing held. "Hold the fragmented teacup in your hands and direct your attention toward it." He kept his voice low, even. "Close your eyes or do not, as you prefer. You will need to focus your mind _entirely._ A single stray thought or impulse will spoil the Creation. Breathe... steady, Archon."

Urianger nodded, his aether starting to steady. Elidibus reached out with his own aether, using the Echo to lower the boundary between their souls, and added to it. He wove his Dark—the very magic which had remade the Star— into the honey-warmth of the Archon's personal aether. And, once linked, he waited for Urianger to grow used to the feeling, to once more relax under his touch. Yes, he did have the capacity for great magics, despite his potential being stunted from what he should have had been. Excellent.

"There. You can draw on my reserves as easily as your own for the moment. Focus on the cup. On how it should be, how it _desires_ to be. Every piece in the correct place. Envision it, as clearly as you can, and then guide the aether to Create your vision..."

Elidibus felt the aether _tugged_ upon, and watched as it poured into the cup, the fragments levitating and floating into the proper places. Urianger watched in amazement as the porcelain bonded, the cracks _healing,_ the small missing bits regenerating from pure aetheric energy. And so the cup was Rejoined. The Archon _was_ capable. Sensing the Echo stir within Urianger, Elidibus withdrew gently, leaving just enough of his Darkness behind to ensure the Archon remained deaf to Hydaelyn's call.

Yes. Such promise... such _potential._ Such dangerous and useful knowledge. And all of it, for the moment, in the service of Hydaelyn's champion.

\- - -

Incredible. Urianger stared at the cup, now whole, and tried to not think about it too metaphorically. The pure, dark aether had been heady, intoxicating. A dangerous temptation. Yet... that he'd managed to cast such magic when even the Champion had not... "Does this not prove that we are more _capable_ than expected, Emissary?" he asked, delicately setting the cup on the table next to the half-full teapot. "Full capable of Creation, save for wanting for raw aether."

"It is evidence of _your_ potential, Archon, but not just any aether will do. Mine is replete with Dark energy. Astral energy, that of Creation itself. You would struggle at best to do the same with a more balanced aetheric well. What's more is that even that level of Creative potential is rare among the Sundered."

This hadn't been what Urianger had expected. He'd hoped for a lack of ire—this went far beyond 'lack of ire' and well into 'admiration.' "May I ask what such an experiment was meant to prove?" he asked. What was Elidibus' plan...?

Elidibus reached for him, carding talons ever-so-gently through his hair. Urianger tensed, not expecting this-- not knowing what to make of this-- and had just enough time to register an intense sense of foreboding before Elidibus murmured. "That you are _worthy_ of His grace."

All was Dark.

Urianger looked around in vain, knowing himself not blind only because the "darkness" proved to be a deep, inky violet, rather than the nothingness that lay behind closed eyes. He was suspended in it. Floating in it. For the first time, he found himself aware that he was _incomplete,_ ever-so-faintly conscious of something that felt almost akin to distant, faint stars—his soul's missing pieces?

Something called him, and—with nowhere else to go and no other guidance—he went toward it, finding himself drifting that way at a whim until he reached what seemed to be a sheer wall of dark crystal, barely discernable from the rest of the dark. He had a feeling that he should know—should recognize—but everything seemed strange, fleeting. As if this wasn't quite real.

He felt as if he were being watched. Or mayhaps inspected. An impression of surprise—he had not been expected?

And then pressure—his head—he grabbed it, wincing—

_Look. Learn. Remember._

> _"No! No, please don't take my son! Please!" A woman, standing in what was clearly an Allagan metropolis, before a soldier and a young adult. "He's all I have left. You can't take him—"_
> 
> _The soldier shook his head. "The draft order comes from the Emperor himself. I'm sorry, Ma'am."_
> 
> _A flash. The young man, now suspended in a strange metal tube. A man in a knee-length white overcoat checked a readout. "Subject KP-118-C vital signs excellent. Projected chance of successful augmentation eighty percent..."_

> _The dragon roared in agony over the eyeless corpse of their consort. Betrayal! Lies! How could they, after everything—the mortals—they would pay, they would pay—_

> _The knight followed behind his party, the rear guard. They were nearly out of the dungeon, the rescued captives safe, the sorcerer—though not defeated—forced into retreat. He watched as the commander worked on the door._
> 
> _And then... and then... he heard the sorcerer's voice silent in his mind._
> 
> _He shook his head. No—no—yet he was already unsheathing his sword, obeying the silent command. Kill—for his master—_
> 
> _They never saw it coming. And when it was over, the control broke. he died a free man..._

Tragedy after tragedy. Living nightmares. What pain mortals wrought, even in their short lives.

Urianger realized only several seconds after the last vision ended that it, in fact, had ended. His head felt as if someone had tried to drive a spike into his temples. What—what had that been— The Echo?

History, he suddenly _knew._ It had been history. Some of the Source, some of other fragmented Shards. Broken souls, playing out petty cruelties.

_But I have seen generosity and beauty. I have known hope!_ his soul cried out. And, yes, the broken souls were capable of such things. So rare. And so quickly did the bearers of hope burn out

> _The great draconic Eikon roared, and with that roar brought Calamity. And from the ground rose a great bird of flame. It struck the dragon—pierced it—_

like a candle burned far too long. Mayhaps that would even be his fate—he, who chose to wear sigils of the night sky on a Star plagued by eternal Light. He who would follow Her Champion anywhere, even unto the depths of his own greatest fears... even unto the destruction of his star and all others, the inherent imbalance uncorrected, the corruption allowed to fester, broken souls cycling until they became wan and worn out like clothing worn to rags.

Destruction? The Star was—

—in danger, and the only way to save it was to _make it whole._

No. No, it wasn't—there had to be some other way—

There was no other way. The star must be made whole—

—no—

_The Convocation must be whole._

No. Not—not him, he was—

—so very _promising._ Intelligent, eloquent, clever, knowledgeable. Yes. Such potential, for a Sundered soul, and so loyal—alas, it had been the Light which found him first. It was fortunate that She had not found the correct key to awaken his potential. The shadow reached out to caress him, and he tried to draw away—tried to recoil—but his body refused to move.

It was gentle, soothing. Not wicked. No sense of cruelty or malice. _He_ had been Created to protect, to sustain, to heal. _H_ e was a god of salvation, no matter what lies had been spun.

No need to fear. No need to fight the gentle, pervasive dark as it blanketed him and quieted his doubts, as a parent comforts their child.

Together, they could— they _would—_ heal even the Stars themselves.

_Look. Learn. Remember._

Urianger stirred and realized he was in his house. In the same chair. He blinked, blearily, as Elidibus pulled his talons away. The Emissary was clearly attempting (in vain) to hide that he was trembling with fatigue.

"What—?" Urianger started to ask, and only then realized that in his hand was a crimson mask. 'Twas strange to at once know one ought to be livid, yet feel only acceptance.

Elidibus looked at him, his tone apologetic. "Please, forgive me for not giving you more of a warning, Archon." He considered the mask. "Or should I call you by your new title, Celebrant?"


	2. Traditions and Myths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elidibus and Urianger discuss recent events. The Warrior of Light discovers a problem.

"I do wish thou wouldst have chosen a less contentious title, Emissary." Urianger peered at the mask, courting bitter memories, then poked at one of the fangs. "Thou knowest well our prior travails... and that this is not something I can hide from the Scions forever, or even for long. In sooth, any deception I might bring to bear will not last beyond a single encounter with Y'shtola. I fear this mask will make this all the harder for them to accept, if they can bring themselves to do so at all."

"It was His will that you be gifted that rank and title." Elidibus responded. "I merely presented you. It is, admittedly, what I hoped would come of it, and doubtlessly He was well aware of my assessment-- you are exceptionally well-suited to it, especially given that it could only be filled, at this junction, by one who was not one of His original summoners."

"Are there any others, currently ascended, who were not of the original Convocation?"

"Only lower-ranked Ascians at present, although I may be forced to select one to fill Igeyorhm's seat if her presence is required in the next decade or so. Few of her Shards remain, and the only one I am presently aware of is far too young at the moment." Elidibus frowned. "Unlike Hydaelyn, Zodiark does _not_ take children as His champions."

"He seemed... not unkind." Urianger frowned. It hadn't been... anything like he'd expected it to be. Wasn't anything like he had feared. Granted, he'd already been in an aetheric form, so he'd had no need to relinquish his flesh. And, while he was aware of His will in the back of his mind, he found himself not nearly so _influenced_ as he had feared, considering the observations of those who had fallen into the thrall of Eorzian Primals—in fact, the faint sense of Him was oddly soothing, a point of stability. Of course, He was also far more skilled than any ordinary primal, his touch likely more subtle. Once again, the strange sense of dissonance—he knew, logically, that this ought to upset him, that he should feel betrayed. And yet, there was nothing but a lingering feeling of _rightness._ How long had he been fascinated by Ascians? On some level, had he truly wanted this all along...?

"I have a feeling that is hardly the extent of your thoughts." Elidibus reached out, stroking Urianger's cheek with the back of his fingers, claws curled away. It was comforting; Urianger leaned in without fully intending to. "I'm certain you're no small amount overwhelmed. It's a great deal to become accustomed to."

Urianger went back to staring at the mask. "It is... knowing what I am to do. What I will have to— who I will have to become. ...is it necessary that I keep the title?"

"Of Speaker, yes." Elidibus went silent, frowning, considering. ".... I do not blame you for being hesitant to take on the title of Lahabrea, given his indiscretions." He hesitated all the more, then reached up to stroke Urianger's hair, with much the same air as one might approach a timid couerl kitten. It was not unpleasant—far from it, in fact. "When the world was whole, taking on the names of the originators of our positions had a symbolic purpose. It represented selflessness. Sacrificing all that you had, all that you were— even your own name— to serve the People. We were not rulers, in our positions. In fact, we were the servants of every citizen, working tirelessly so that the Star might thrive." His talons scratched ever-so-lightly along Urianger's scalp in a way that made him quiver, the sensation bolting down his spine. "While I would like to see you uphold the tradition, it would hardly be fair to demand such of you."

"What if I were to choose a new title? One taken from history, or myth, that would suit the role? This will be difficult enough for the Scions to accept without calling myself by the title of the one who did unto us such grievous harm. Nor does it seem fair to the Convocation to ask that they accept a novice who, nonetheless, claims for himself the title that was— until so very recently— held by one of those left unbroken by the shattering of the Star."

Elidibus looked down, his shoulders tightening under the white robes. "....very well, then, Speaker. Choose for yourself the title you will bear among the Convocation."

"I will consider my decision with all due care," Urianger said, solemnly, bowing his head. "And bear no lack of gratitude for thy understanding. I cannot imagine it is a simple thing..." He wasn't certain how to finish that sentence gracefully. Being the last of one's world? Seeing those who had been by your side so long that one could watch civilizations come and go like seasons in a mortal lifespan both perish in but a few scant years?

Granted, they had done all possible to coax Emet-Selch into backing down, and he had adamantly refused. Yet—despite that— he had clearly been holding back when he lashed out at the Scions, in light of the might he'd revealed before the Champion soon after. To one of his power, killing them would almost have been easier than the level of restraint he'd shown, knocking them back without serious injury. Actions that were, in retrospect, at odds with his words. Mayhaps the logic of Toqtani's clan on the matter of words and deeds was not so flawed as he had oft considered it.

"Not at all simple," Elidibus agreed, the weight of a thousand lifetimes in his voice, and Urianger wished only that he knew some way to ease some fraction of it. He looked at the Emissary, thinking the matter over.

"How are we to proceed from here? It is vital that this remain concealed from the Scions for as long as practically possible." Even though the thought of leaving them made his heart ache, he knew well his place was no longer with them—that he could not ask they accept this. (He knew that they would likely try. He also strongly suspected that it would pain them even more than a clean break would.) "They will doubtlessly take no small offense to thine actions, and with that do all possible to return me to their side. My present state will not go unnoticed; I fear that not even my best illusions could serve to provide protection from the sight beyond sight Y'shtola relies on. And they know well that I expected thy company."

"What of sending word that you have, as before, tricked me into believing you an ally, and that you will be in contact? It would not be entirely a lie, and they would-- I hope-- not follow you."

"'Twould buy time, if nothing else." This did little to quiet the lamentation of his heart, but it was _a_ plan, at least. "And then...?"

"There is much you need must learn, and you have no lingering memories to guide you. He has given unto you no few gifts, new powers you might call upon. I think teleportation is the best starting point. It is immensely convenient, and similar enough to teleporting to an aetheryte that you should be able to grasp it swiftly."

"And it will likely soon be called upon for us to quit this place." The thought filled him with no little regret. "I will pen the missive, as suggested, ere we begin the teaching thou intendest."

\- - -

Toqtani burst into Master Matoya's abode with an expression that made more than clear that _everything was not well._ She looked at the paper in her hand, then between Y'shtola, Ryne, and Thancred, then—after a moment of indecisive hesitation-- thrust the paper into Runar's hands, pointed at Y'shtola, and then at the door to the next room.

Runar looked at her, then at the paper, his head tilting slightly, perplexed. Then back at her. "You do know that—"

She looked at him sharply enough to cut him off, with an expression that made quite clear that this was a complicated situation and that, in this case, the words of an ally might be called for, then made a motion about her head that suggested a hood and ears, then another that suggested _very_ short.

"It's from Krile?" Y'shtola asked.

Toqtani nodded.

"And important to keep secret?"

Toqtani glanced at Ryne, who looked right back at her.

"You don't have to keep it quiet for my sake!" She reconsidered. "Or, um... you know what I meant. I can handle a little bad news—assuming it _is_ bad news--"

"Give me that." Thancred took the paper from Runar and read it, his hands tightening until it crinkled in his grip. He turned to stalk toward the door, only for Toqtani to step into the way. She looked at him with an expression that suggested he ought to know better.

Meanwhile, Y'shtola was also frowning. "Toqtani? You realize that I can read just as well as you can, perhaps better?" And, evidently, from some distance away. "I think this is something we _need_ to discuss before you go off to the rescue, Thancred, particularly in light of Urianger's recent missive."

Thancred frowned, then relented, going back to a chair to sit heavily.

"What happened?" Ryne frowned. "We got the note earlier that he was going to go spy on the Ascian."

"And then Krile sent a message that the bond between his body and soul was broken." Thancred looked distant, as if he wasn't quite processing this.

"Wait, doesn't that mean his body—" Ryne's eyes had gone wide.

"He's not... his body isn't _dead,_ although without intervention it wouldn't last long. The Ironworks believe they can source a stasis pod from one of our allies—that's a type of machina that puts someone in a state much like hibernation—which means we have time. It'll keep his body alive. But it means that getting his soul back into it will be much more difficult, even compared to the rest of us." If at all possible. "Which means that— quite likely— he wasn't in Elidibus' good graces, as he believed himself to be, and he needs help." The _if it isn't too late_ was unstated. It didn't have to be.

"Or, alternatively..." Y'shtola was frowning, as well. "If Krile's message was written first, he _knows_ something is wrong and wanted to keep us from worrying by giving us a plausible excuse for being out of touch. Don't give me that look. You _know_ he has lied, more than once, despite grievous consequences in a vain attempt to spare us pain in the past. I'd hoped he'd learned his lesson this time."

Toqtani looked at her flatly, her thoughts on the matter of Urianger's words self-evident. She thumped her chest, then motioned toward Y'shtola, then motioned in a way that suggested a dome, then opening a book.

"Of course we're going to investigate the last place he was seen," Y'shtola said, coolly.

"Shadows guard you, Master Matoya." Runar all but purred her name. Thancred looked at her, then down at the floor.

Then Toqtani pointed at Thancred and Ryne (and cleared her throat, the _sound_ startling Thancred enough to get his attention.) She moved her hands over her horns as if putting on a hood, patted her arm and pantomimed thumping a staff against the floor, then pointed to the two missives.

"Right. He might have some ideas." Thancred still seemed rather displeased.

"And even if he doesn't, maybe his mirror might be able to show us what's going on." Ryne reached up to hold Thancred's hand. "Have faith. That's what Urianger always told us, right?"

"...right."

Finally, Toqtani pointed to Runar and then to the room where the mysterious girl yet slept. She stood at attention and motioned as if holding up her shield.

"Of course, Warrior! The Night's Blessed will ensure no harm comes to her... who is she, anyway?"

Toqtani shrugged.

"Something definitely happened here." Y'shtola frowned. The lingering dark energy here was so dense that she struggled to distinguish the more subtle aether of other objects in the room, though Toqtani, at least, was as brilliant as she ever was on the Source (and, thankfully, no more brilliant than that.) "I haven't seen energy of this sort since I investigated the chambers the Warring Triad had been contained in... in fact, it's disturbingly similar. I wonder if this energy is what broke the connection?"

Toquani frowned at a pair of chairs and picked up a teapot—deliberately sloshing the contents to demonstrate that it was partly full—then frowned and pointed out spilled tea on the floor, the wood swollen from the lingering moisture, then the two teacups—one empty, one partly full—and a plate with a half-eaten rolanberry turnover next to a basket still partly full of untouched turnovers. She broke one open and smelled it, then nibbled it as if to test it before taking an enthusiastic bite.

"Strange. They sat down to have tea, so it was, at least, initially a peaceful meeting. Then something happened and the tea spilled, and they never finished it, nor took the time to clean it up... but not a fight. No signs of struggle. Not so much as a single sheet of paper is out of place." Y'shtola kept investigating, heading back into Urianger's quarters. This, too, was mostly undisturbed. The aetheric manipulation equipment had been sent to the Crystarium for safekeeping, of course. But his spare robes were still hanging neatly on their hooks, the bed neatly made. Shaking her head, she returned to the common room and explained this to Toqtani.

Toqtani frowned, chewing on her turnover. She looked around—exaggerating the motion to make it clear she meant it as a directive—then held her hand palm-up before her (the remaining turnover balanced on top) and used the other to "draw" a card.

"You're right... I don't see his planisphere, either. Seems to make it all the less likely he was taken against his will, if he had the time and liberty to retrieve his focus. If not for the missives and the lingering energy—and the fact that he didn't finish his tea, which is utterly unlike him— I'd say he'd just gone out for an afternoon stroll."

Toqtani sighed and finished her snack.

"More questions than answers, indeed. We should go to the Crystarium and let them know what we've seen. And contact Alisaie and Alphinaud, for that matter. They deserve to know about this."

\- - -

"Ne'er did I realize the moon was so large, set like a pearl amongst the diamonds of the heavens." Urianger gazed upon the First—Norvarandt was at this juncture faced away from them, and the sheer white of the Empty made it seem almost like unto a second sun in the sky. "Nor so desolate, radiant as it is in the night sky."

"The moon was never meant for life... only as His prison. That it reflects the light of the sun is, more than anything, merely a cruel echo of its purpose." Elidibus, too, regarded the world below them, the Speaker as a shadow before him, tall and thin and clad in dark robes, golden stars dancing upon them.

Urianger looked at him, then back at the lunarscape. "I am reminded of an ancient legend that I have spent much time pondering, this past day. It is said to take place during the Fifth Astral Era, and there is some evidence that there is some historical truth to it.

"'Tis said that an honorable prince of Amdapor—one who bore gifts that most strongly suggest that he was, in sooth, one of Hydaelyn's chosen—was ordered to journey unto Nym on an allegedly diplomatic mission. Unbeknownst to him, the offering of peace he bore was in fact a weapon; as he entered the town square, it was unleashed, and he found himself surrounded by the dead, every one killed by the twisted gift he had unwittingly delivered."

Elidibus smiled. "Ah, yes. I remember this one. It is, indeed, rooted in historical truth. Do go on—it's interesting to see how time has corrupted the tale."

"Questioning the throne and filled with regret, the prince surrendered his title and quested in search of redemption. And after no few travails, he found it—becoming the first knight to weave the magics we would now consider conjury into his art, and in doing so becoming the first paladin. Having gathered allies and forgiven himself, he returned to his homeland, only to discover the truth—that the king had been replaced by a powerful fiend of the elements." He frowned. "Which I suspect to have been a primal?"

"He was." How very astute Urianger was.

"And his brother, who—it is said—was consumed by a spirit of hatred from the moon?"

"One of Lahabrea's projects." And the other time his host had escaped. Oh, how Lahabrea had _hated_ that.

"I suspected so." Urianger frowned. "Then thou knowest well how the tale ends. But the part that has caught mine attention is the stories of the archfiends—the Primals, if I must be precise—that the prince and his allies fought. One among them is described as honorable, just, even merciful in some of the looser retellings. Given that my position brings with it an affinity for flame, and my benevolent intent even as I fill this role, it seemeth fitting that I take from him my title."

"Yes. I remember him... I think he would have approved of your decision to carry on his legacy." Elidibus smiled. "As did history remember him—while the original summoner, of course, did not survive, his legend persisted, though corrupted by time and calamity alike. His spirit of justice and honor was preserved in the primal you know as Ramuh."

"All the more fitting, with that considered." Urianger looked back at the First, then out at distant stars. "Henceforth, while acting in service of the Convocation, I shall be known by the title of Rubicante."

"By His grace, may it be so." Elidibus saw no reason to protest the choice of titles, and so was it done. Urianger stood silently, clearly lost in thought.

"You'll likely want for rest," Elidibus murmured. "You've had quite the eventful day." Though, technically, Urianger's aetheric body did not _require_ sleep to function now that he could draw energy from Zodiark, he presumed it did and so he still felt the need for it. Expectation shaped perception. Nonetheless, the period of still and quiet would help balance him, give his aether time to settle into the new flows; therefore, Elidibus saw no reason at the time to correct his misconception.

Urianger nodded. "Eventful it has been. But I doubt the moon to be replete with comfortable beds."

"It is not, but I can Create for you an appropriate place to rest. We are entirely safe here." With a little searching he found a hollow shielded from the direct light, and a canopy over it provided even more shelter, so that he might sleep without being disturbed by the planetlight. And within he conjured a tarp to keep moon dust out of the bed, then a nest of soft cushions and blankets to rest within.

Urianger headed for the nest Elidibus had conjured for him with a quiet word of gratitude, divesting himself of his jewelry before crawling into it, burrowing under the blankets and curling up. He drew one of the pillows to his chest and lay still.

Elidibus did not often make rash decisions. And—admittedly—the thought of converting Urianger to His service had been in the back of his mind for some time, now. But he hadn't gone to Il Mheg intending to make the Archon His. It had just seemed right; doubtlessly His will at work. His haste was worrying; mayhaps they had taken too long, presuming eternity lie before them to complete their plans—

(And now he stood alone. There was no more _them_. For the others, eternity had been cut short by a blade of light.)

He returned to the shelter and listened. Urianger's breathing was far from even—it caught, hitching. Muffled. He reached out with the Gift, lowering the barrier around his soul.

No clear memory, just emotion. _So, so very lonely. He would never see them again—would never be able to tell them—_

(...he would never see them again.)

This was his fault, wasn't it? He'd done this to Urianger—pulled him away from them so suddenly. It had been the right thing to do for Zodiark, for the Rejoining. But it had _wounded_ him, and would hurt all the more in the coming days. Urianger had lost his world, as certainly and completely as Elidibus once had. And he had no one—not even a pair of particularly eccentric co-workers for company. Not yet. In time, perhaps, he would warm to the Convocation, to his new allies, but Elidibus knew it would be a long journey.

_He has you._

Elidibus hesitated. He'd been the _cause_ of Urianger's pain. The one who had imposed this fate upon him... even if it had been his god's will, his god's decision, in the end. But didn't that mean he was all the more responsible for him? His fledgling. So very brilliant, so very optimistic and creative.

He hesitated, then approached the shelter. Urianger was still wrapped around the pillow, his face buried in it. "....Archon?" Elidibus murmured.

"Prithee—I am well. I need not thy attentions—" He was trying to keep his voice even, and mostly succeeding. "Leave me."

"I can't. Not right now." He hesitated, then dismissed his gloves, adjusted his robes with a thought, changing the gold accents to a goldthread embroidery—keeping the same patterns, but now soft to the touch.

Urianger didn't respond, his breathing deep and ragged.

"....I'm sorry," he whispered. And he was. He'd never meant to cause him such sorrow, and tempering him to the point where he'd _forget_ this pain would restrict his brilliant mind far too much—it was something that would need be endured. "Please... allow me to take care of you. I know I cannot truly remediate this—His gift cannot be rescinded. But you need not be alone."

(He didn't want to be alone.)

That only served to push Urianger over into outright sobbing. _He was making it worse._ Emotions were so fickle, so _confusing._ Elidibus sighed and hesitated, then—slowly, carefully—lay an ungloved hand against Urianger's back and rubbed in slow circles, trying to soothe him. Urianger tensed, then pressed into his hand, although it seemed to do naught to quiet him.

Maybe he wanted for more. Slowly, cautiously, Elidibus lay down beside him, then—when he did not protest-- gently gathered the unresisting elezen into his arms. "I am here. If it helps you, I am here." He felt Urianger curl into him, burying his face against his shoulder, long arms wrapping around him. Elidibus held him, praying fruitlessly for enlightenment—for some insight on how to _fix_ his fledgling's broken heart. Stroked his hair, his back-- even long after he quieted-- until he felt the other man's breathing deepen and steady, felt his body grow heavy and limp in his arms. And even then, he stayed, focused on the elezen's steady breaths, monitoring the slow flow of aether through his form, occasionally nudging it to help his adaptation. He would be surprised to realize he'd somehow fallen asleep— as napping was a habit he had never acquired— when he woke some hours later.


	3. Death Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubicante gets Ascian lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the very, very long time on this update. Between 5.2 (both having my mind blown and actually playing the game for some reason) and the current crisis (I work in a grocery store) I've been on shaky ground as far as writing goes. I hope you enjoy the update!
> 
> I did make some edits to the first two parts to incorporate some of the 5.2 lore, but none of it changes the plot-- it's mostly refining Elidibus' PoV.
> 
> There is a brief and undetailed passage that may potentially trigger those who have issues with self-harm, please be advised.

"He went to meet Elidibus. Alone." Alisaie stared the elder Scions down. "And nobody thought to stop him?" Her tone made clear that she would very much have stopped him this time had they deigned to tell her his plan.

"He insisted that he was in full control of the situation." Thancred's voice was muted. "We agreed that keeping Elidibus away from both Ryne and our guest was paramount. I offered to stay with him—multiple times— but he insisted I accompany them."

Ryne was silent, her expression making her concern clear.

"You _know_ how he martyrs himself," Alisaie said. "We've all fought alongside him enough."

Thancred 's eyes were fixed somewhere above Alisaie's head. "...I know."

"It does us little good to try to assign blame. Or to invite it." Alphinaud said, watching the great mirror as the Exarch manipulated its display. It flashed scene after scene, but stopped nowhere. Clearly his scrying had not yet struck upon anything of note. "We just need to find him. Then bring him back. Then worry about the rest."

The door to the Ocular opened. Toqtani and Y'shtola had returned from Il Mheg. "Any news?" Thancred asked.

Toqtani frowned, but looked to Y'shtola, who gladly answered for both of them. "There's no sign of a struggle, although they left in a hurry. They left tea and food behind—but Urianger was able to take his weapon along with him; it seems likely he went without a fight. The only thing out of place is a puddle of tea and an overwhelming surfeit of dark Aether."

Alphinaud frowned, clearly thinking the situation over.

The Exarch shook his head. "I've searched every square malm of Norvarandt, including the Tempest. Presuming that Elidibus hasn't taken him to the Empty—which would likely be nigh intolerable for an Ascian—he must be somehow warded against my magic."

"What if we tried tracking Elidibus, instead?" Thancred stared at the empty mirror. "Even if he has Urianger cloaked... maybe we can hope for some complacence. A spell that powerful must have left some signature we can trace." The Exarch nodded and started up another scrying session.

"I'd presumed," Alphinaud said, "that Ascians could not take mortals alongside them, but what if I'm incorrect? What if that power _was_ from a teleportation spell strong enough to bridge the rift between worlds?"

"If Urianger is no longer on the First," the Exarch said, "that would explain why I can't find him. Although that leaves it all the more critical to attempt to track them, before the trail goes cold."

Thancred nodded. "I'll look for him."

" _We'll_ look for him." Alisaie gave Thancred a pointed look. "Urianger's not the only one who tends to martyr himself."

Toqtani nodded at Thancred, also clearly considering the situation.

"As worried as we all are about Urianger... this situation creates other problems." Y'shtola put her hands behind her back. "The rest of us are still linked to our bodies with a rapidly-fading bond, and we _were_ relying on Urianger's aetherological research to help bridge the gap. In his absence, I'm likely the one of us with the best foundation to continue his work, lest our candles burn down to stubs while we're focused on getting him back."

"He's been teaching me aetherology, too." Ryne chimed in. " I'll help in any way I can until Thancred finds him."

"But what if it's not teleportation...." Alphinaud looked at Alisaie, then at the other Scions, hesitating.

Alisaie looked at him. "Out with it."

"This is, I pray, overly pessimistic." He rubbed his forehead. "He outright betrayed Elidibus the last time they faced each other. Do you remember the sylphs?"

Thancred's hands tightened to fists as he realized the implications of Alphinaud's words, his eyes downcast. "No. Don't even suggest it. He _wouldn't_ let that happen." And with that, he started toward the door. "I'm going to go find him."

Alisaie frowned and gave chase. "Thancred—!" The door slammed closed behind them. Alphinaud watched them go. "...does he know about Alisaie's research?" he asked.

"I don't think so." Ryne looked confused. "What's a sylph? And what do you think happened?"

"Sylphs are similar to the pixies of the First, only more... leafy." Alphinaud explained. "Small, flying, mischievous things. How much has Thancred told you about Primals?"

"He and Urianger explained them in detail when we started to work on our project."

"Really, the more I hear about that project the more curious I am," Alphinaud said. "The sylphs worship Ramuh, who—unlike most Primals—is honorable. He seeks primarily to protect the sylphs and their forest. However, like all Primals, his overpowering aether is able to corrupt the aether of others and force them into his service, either inadvertently during the process of summoning him, or—theoretically—deliberately in the act of tempering, although Ramuh in particular only deliberately tempers those who willingly devote themselves to him."

Ryne nodded.

"Unfortunately, the same doesn't hold true of the sylphs who are bound to him, who kidnap and ritually temper their kin in his stead. If Elidibus is capable of the same..."

Ryne gasped, her eyes widening.

Y'shtola nodded grimly. "Then Urianger might not have had a choice in the matter. And—if you're right, Twelve forbid-- once we find him, _we_ won't have a choice either."

Toqtani shook her head, sharply, then looked at the door, making a motion reminiscent of drawing and pointing a rapier.

"Yes, and that's where Alisaie's research comes in," Alphinaud said. "She's had a breakthrough while working with the patients at Journey's End. She's not perfected it yet, but—in short-- the patients there suffer from an affliction that is, at its core, similar to tempering. Their aether is overaspected to Light, affecting them both physically and mentally. If her theories prove effective on the patients there, she should be able to cure tempering, as well."

"So he'll be fine... as long as we find him and get him back." Ryne said, frowning.

Y'shtola frowned, considering her words carefully. "He won't be unscathed by it, if that's what's become of him, even if we do restore his aether. But he’ll have the chance to recover.” She sighed, looking back at the crystal mirror, which had clearly found nothing. "Exarch. I'll need his notes and anything else he sent back to the Crystarium for safekeeping—I'm certain he wouldn't have left anything even tangentially related to the white auracite where Elidibus could stumble across it. Toqtani, would you mind travelling back to the Waking Sands and seeing if you can find anything that appears to be relevant in his notes there?"

Toqtani stared at her flatly.

"You're right... you're no academic. Send Coultenet, if he's willing—he's not much of an academic either, but he should have the background in aetheric theory to at least separate out the completely irrelevant material."

Toqtani nodded, then turned toward the portal that she and only she could take back to the Source. There was work to be done.

\---

The next several days—or as close as Urianger could estimate, as the moon had not the same cycle of day and night as the Star, nor a culture that marked the hours even when the night never came—were replete with lessons, both practical and philosophical. How to call upon His gifts and blessings, first and foremost; while manipulating Dark magic was far more simple and straightforward than the complex formulae that defined arcanima or attuning to the music of the spheres as one must to channel their power, even the forms that were not pure Creation had the critical caveat that even a small break in focus could ruin the spell or, worse, alter it unpredictably. For the nature of Dark was creativity and change, and while His blessing gave it order, an undisciplined mind could easily falter nonetheless.

"Again," Elidibus commanded, although he sounded not displeased. Urianger once more wove shadow and aether and will and intent, the focus coming much more easily now that he was accustomed to it. It was not entirely unlike the conjuration of a carbuncle, although this creature was far more powerful. Visually it appeared to be potentially kin to one of the wingless lesser dragons, although it lacked the intellect of its inspiration. Red-black scales over powerful musculature. Sharp claws at the end of long legs and vicious, jagged teeth, bone spikes on its stout tail, the gem embedded in its chest full capable of lending its attacks an elemental charge. He'd designed it to be an immense visual threat—to keep the foe's attention off the summoner. It stood still, inert without a command to follow or an enemy to fight, just as Urianger had intended—while carbuncles could be afforded some degree of fabricated intellect, he would not trust this beast with such a gift until he was certain he could indeed control it.

"Yes. Very well-done. Your speed is improving significantly." Elidibus smiled, pleased. "Have you named your Creation yet?"

Urianger shook his head. "Inspiration, unfortunately, hath yet to strike me. 'Tis no small temptation to search ancient tomes for a suitable name, but—alas—I have no access to them here." Nor was he likely to; the solitude of the moon meant he could have no real distraction from his work of mastering His blessing save for his own thoughts, and he had little doubt that such had been Elidibus' intent in bringing him here. He looked the beast over once more, then dismissed it—unweaving the spells and absorbing much of the aether he'd used to Create it in the first place. The process was not entirely efficient. Every casting wore down his reserves, and he found himself glancing toward the little pavilion Elidibus had Created longingly. While the Emissary had seemed comfortable enough on the barren moon, Urianger himself was accustomed to creature comforts such as chairs and beds, and Elidibus had indulged him.

...though, from the very first night, it was always hardest when he tried to rest. By day—or at least the time he was active— he was busy... distracted. But by night he could remember (and remember he did) the personal cost of the Star's salvation. He wondered if his—if the Scions had made any progress in getting home. Hoped beyond hope that they had accepted his message at face value and had gone on without him. Prayed they did not miss him too much, that they would not mourn his absence when he did not return—

—and knew they would, nonetheless. And that in time they would move on. Live their lives without him. Mayhaps best that way, without his deceptions, without his mistakes.

This _had to be_ for the best.

"Rubicante." Elidibus' call stirred him from his melancholy reverie. "Perhaps I have pushed you too hard. Come, let us rest." He started toward the pavilion, and Urianger followed silently, then—once they arrived—settled on a cushion. The pavilion—a vastly improved version of the hasty shelter the Emissary had Created the first night here— was open to the dry, cool moon air. The roof was but a symbolic shelter given the lack of wind or weather, although the stairs up to the platform served to keep the dust out. Elidibus settled nearby, within arm's reach. "You do well. So very well," he said, his voice a caress. "No need to regret."

He regretted, nonetheless. "...I understand, Emissary."

"This is likely a good time to teach you to commune with Him; it will help to restore your strength." Elidibus reached for him, laying a taloned glove over his hand.

Urianger's head tilted, curiosity roused. "Commune?"

"It is a state... somewhere between meditation and prayer, where you will be able to communicate with Him, and He with you, though not in words. Your initial presentation to Him was essentially an imposed communion—and I could certainly do so for you again, should you require it—but it's important you learn to do so on your own." Elidibus smiled gently. "He is _close_ here, on the surface of His prison. With myself at hand to act as a conduit, you will find it simple to commune with Him, even with so little experience, and once you’ve done it once finding your way back—even in less ideal circumstances—will be simple."

"Doth thou do so often?" Urianger asked.

"I am His Emissary. I have no need to commune with him in this way... or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I am in a _continual_ state of communion with him. We are of one mind."

Curious, what this implied about Elidibus... and about how closely his God's opinion aligned with that of His Emissary. He nodded. "I will accept thy lesson."

"Close your eyes. Focus, as you did when you channeled my power to mend the cup, but this time reach to the sense of _Him_ within you," Elidibus instructed, his voice low, soothing. Urianger saw no reason to dissent, and did as he was directed. His was an immensely steadying presence, and as he concentrated, Urianger felt Him turn His attention toward His servitor. His god spoke not—was not at liberty to—but Urianger was aware that He was aware of him, of his focus on Him, and that this pleased Him. He was learning well.

Urianger felt his face heat slightly. He'd scarcely learned anything thus far.

But he'd taken the first steps. The difficult ones. And it hurt, yes, it hurt—as if his heart had been torn from his chest.

His god knew his suffering. But, despite that, it was best this way—best he serve, best he strive for his god. _His_ presence surrounded him, seeming to cradle him as it had once before; he sighed softly, soothed, feeling his own thoughts and fears and doubts go still and quiet in His divine presence. Always would his god be a comfort for him, if His Celebrant would but turn his thoughts and mind to Him. The pain would not be forever, but He would.

An unsuitable vessel was he for the memory of his predecessor, but mayhaps He could visit a blessing upon His newest disciple regardless. Soft chimes bloomed within his mind, and the Gift gave them meaning. And in time—mayhaps a minute, mayhaps a month, it held little meaning in His presence—he started to link sound to inent. The Convocation often spoke their own tongue amongst themselves, and it would behoove Rubicante to be capable of responding in kind. It was difficult for mortal tongue to reproduce the sound, but the Ascians had come up with an adapted version of the true language for their use when the original form was not available to them; the knowledge of how the sounds changed bloomed in his mind, still so close to the original that it resonated even in the unawakened soul should the speaker desire, making one's intent clear. And he was such a very eager student. So observant, so clever. He pleased his god in this.

And, when the lesson was over, he relaxed, still comforted in His divine embrace, and did not wish to leave. He was faintly aware of his body—of being ever-so-gently guided to lie down, his hair caressed in slow, steady strokes. He could stay as long as he wanted, in His presence, he realized. He would be taken care of.

He would be. And he was as he lingered in that safe, calm place.

In time, he stirred from the Communion, blinking blearily, uncertain if he had truly slept or simply been locked in a state of deep rapport. Elidibus was near, of course, as he usually was—gazing out into the stars. The constellations looked different from this perspective, though the stars and their song were unchanged.

"How long--?" He sat up, rubbed at his eyes.

"It matters little," Elidibus said, turning to look at him. "Time, for the moment, is not of the essence, and it is good for you to spend time in His presence, given your role." He approached and sat next to Urianger; Urianger hesitated, then moved closer, craving contact. "It is as much a part of your training as anything I can present to you." Elidibus smiled softly and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Urianger nodded, thinking back on the experience. It had been just as dream-like as his initial ascension. No words... but no words were needed, simply the sense of being _guided._ Thoughts drifting through his mind that were not his own. Thoughts that had seemed sensible at the time, but now were half-recalled riddles, clues as to something far grander at work. "I think," he finally said, once his _own_ thoughts were in order, "that there is much that I do not yet understand."

"You are not incorrect in such a thought. We will help you. In this you are not alone." And His Emissary's voice held the same soothing aspect as His embrace, inherently calming. Urianger relaxed against his side, closing his eyes lightly so he could focus—both on his words and on developing his ability to sense aether, another of the many skills he needed to master. While he had been able to sense aether before his ascension—a skill trained though no small amount of observation correlated with what he had observed through aetheric goggles— his ascension had enhanced that sense greatly, to the point where his mortal talent scarcely mattered, so different was the experience.

"One of the subjects He hinted at—'twas something about Lahabrea's memory. That I was not... suited to it. Can this be explained further?"

"Of course. As you are doubtlessly aware, the aether of living beings exists in three parts: the aether of the mind, that of the body, and that of the soul." Elidibus' voice took on the cadence of a teacher, and Urianger settled in to listen and learn. "In contrast, Ascians—and, potentially, those who bear Crystals of Light, as you have seen demonstrated by the Warriors of the First and Unukalhai— have only two parts to their aether: mind and soul, anchored by the crystal gifted unto us by our respective god in lieu of a corporeal body. While we may claim a body for a time, we are not cast into the Aethereal Sea upon the body's death. Instead, we return to whence we are anchored, the liminal space between the physical world and the Sea, so that we may recover."

"That which thou hath imparted is largely known to me. Though 'tis reassuring to have confirmation that so many of my long-held theories were correct."

"Indeed." Elidibus continued. "But there are times, nonetheless, when an ascended is lost, despite their bond to the Crystal. In the case of the Sundered, the ideal solution is to raise another fragment of the original soul to office in their place. This restores the aether of the soul to the office in question, but not the aether of the mind." He shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, himself. "That, instead, is supplied by Zodiark. When we commune, we share with Him our thoughts, our memory, by means of the Gift. And when a newly ascended shard communes with Him, they can use the Gift to reclaim those memories He has safeguarded for them."

Urianger's head tilted in curiosity. "Overwriting the mortal mind?"

"Certainly not. It merely supplements it, as does any other use of the Gift. They remain themselves," he explained, "but, at the same time, become more. However, you are—as you yourself have observed—fundamentally _not Lahabrea_." And there was the barest hint of sorrow there, masked as it was. "While the responsibilities of your station and elemental alignment are the same, you bear not even the smallest trace of his soul aether, and so you cannot retrieve his memory as one who is part of the same soul could. Our god could, and likely will, show you specific fragments of your predecessor's existence—just as the Gift might grant unto you insight into the past of any other soul-- but it would be the work of mortal lifetimes to witness even the most important fragments of his memory in their entirety."

Such would doubtlessly be a fascinating endeavor—and priceless, should it be preserved where others might access it. He remembered what they had been told, what they had personally observed in the illusion Emet-Selch had constructed for them— the madman they had faced had once been a respected scholar and a leader of his people. It would be unnecessarily cruel to ask Elidibus to speak of his past, he suspected, but final requests were to be respected nonetheless, and this posed a unique solution. "Do I not have thousands of years," he mused, "as I am now? I will... inquire when next I commune. Even preserving mere glimpses would be better than allowing the memory to lie fallow."

"Always so curious." Elidibus smiled fondly, reaching up to card a hand though his hair, drawing a soft, content sigh from the elezen. He was coming to find that he rather enjoyed the physical attention. "While it may not be where your greatest curiosity lies, it would do well for you to inquire of the gifts specifically afforded to the Celebrant—those I can teach you little of."

"This is, presumably, the noted affinity for fire?" Urianger asked.

"Indeed. The twelve of the Convocation who walked in dark robes were traditionally associated with the twelve elements, and upon our ascension He attuned each of them all the more to it."

"Twelve elements—each in its astral and umbral state?" Urianger surmised.

"No." Elidibus smiled, and Urianger—startled—paid all the more attention to his words. "There are the six concrete elements—the ones you are familiar with— and the six abstract elements. The very knowledge of the second set has been lost to the Source—in fact, some of them lack a direct translation in your language." Elidibus looked quite pleased with himself.

Urianger puzzled over Elidibus' words. "Is one of these 'abstract elements' gravity, by chance?" A spell he was intimately familiar with—and one that astrological theory considered non-elemental, but Urianger _knew_ he drew energy from the Spire to cast it. It had seemed counterintuitive to link gravity to _lightning,_ but for it to be a second element that was drawn from the selfsame stars....

Elidibus looked outright proud. "You are mostly correct—or rather, as correct as you can be, given the limitations of your knowledge. The element you speak of—" he named it in the Ascian tongue—"encompasses both _gravity_ and _time_ , which are inexorably linked in ways that are difficult to explain without a far more thorough grounding in physics than you currently possess."

"It is, if nothing else, aetherologically sound." And revolutionary—this information would transform aetheric theory entirely! That astrologians had been tapping into an unknown element for so long— for some of the traditional Sharlyan techniques that he had, alas, not mastered whilest stranded upon the First called upon mastery of time—without even realizing it was an element was astounding. "What other such elements exist?"

"Your own element, fire, is complemented by the Knight-Star's element, which is _particularly_ difficult to translate to Eorzean. It encompasses the body, metal, physical strength."

Urianger raised his eyebrow. "As is said of the Second Heaven, represented by the Balance in the firmament. It represents two of the Twelve, and the second is a warrior-goddess. "

"Yes. The Twelve—proof that, though your people had forgotten the abstract elements, you yet clung to some cultural memory of them, immortalized in your deities, if at times confused or jumbled." He seemed amused by this.

"I would summarize that element as _might,_ for lack of a more precise term. Prithee, continue—with the Bole, mayhaps?"

Elidibus nodded. "The Protector—as you might surmise from your aetherological knowledge—is associated with the element of earth. And, as death is a part of life, and as the Aethereal Sea runs deep under the ground, so is the counterpart to earth the mastery of souls and—some might argue—death itself."

"This was Emet-Selch's power, was it not?" He wondered how he had not realized such before—plucking Y'shtola from the Sea unharmed, weaving an entire city of phantoms and memory, calling on the spirits of his fallen brethren to bolster his strength— the common thread was clear, given this knowledge.

Elidibus nodded, solemnly. "It was. The other abstract elements are far more straightforward—the Transcendent's power is that of the mind, counterpart to the High Seraph's mastery of wind. The Holy Queen commanded mastery of aether—unaspected aether, to be clear. The raw stuff of magic itself, which flows in ley lines as water in rivers. And, naturally, The Benevolent's domain is healing, paired with The Martyr's mastery of ice—the powers closest to the Light; preservation, stagnation."

Urianger listened to the description, rapt (and noted that he would need learn the epithets of the Ascians, as well as their titles.) "And, as Emissary, thy element... is Darkness itself? Or, rather, that which is aligned to the Astral?"

Elidibus nodded. "That is not... exactly correct, but it's close enough for your present understanding. I have my own unique Gifts, but they are not a part of the elemental cycles."

"Doth there exist a counterpart to thee, aligned to the Umbral?"

Elidibus hesitated. "Yes. Hydaelyn, too, has an Emissary—alongside her Champion and the other Warriors who hearken to her call, might I add. Although Her Emissary does not follow the same rules that I do."

Urianger's head tilted curiously. "How so?"

Elidibus frowned, his words coming slowly. "Where Zodiark chose to keep His hand close to His heart when direct action was not needed, Hydaelyn chose instead to cast Hers into the Sea, to live as a mortal until the time She had need of her."

That explained much, if... "Was this person known unto me?"

"Yes. She was."

"...I see." He closed his eyes. How had he not seen the patterns? How had he not realized? And, if he had, would it have changed his decisions? Would he have found some better way to save the First... or, in his indecision, left it to its doom? ....had it truly been _Minfilia's_ will? He suspected that he would never know at this juncture; that it was far too late for him to learn the truth.

"You did the best you could with the information you had available. It does you no good to ruminate so." He gently stroked Urianger's cheek, trying to soothe him. "Focus on the road before you, not the past which is already fixed."

Urianger sighed softly. "If thou wouldst permit, might I petition Him for knowledge, as thou hast suggested?" He wanted it... the calm peace communing with Him brought. The way his fears and worries seemed to melt away in His presence.

"Of course, my fledgling." Elidibus smiled. "Make yourself comfortable."

Urianger did, as he suggested—lay at his side, the nest still soft and inviting. "'Fledgling'?" he asked.

"Yes. An old practice, an old way of thinking. For the time being you dwell in my nest, heed my commands as you learn from me.... but, in time, you will fly beside me on your own wings." He reached for Urianger once again and comforted him, his hand warm against his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. Urianger sighed softly and closed his eyes. "You are worthy. He has judged you so. Turn to Him, dear fledgling, and allow Him to guide you."

Urianger reached for Him once more, and this time found the sense of Him much more easily. Felt His presence surround him as before, and this time focused on his intent, rather than simply allowing the peace of His embrace to overtake him. His title, his role. How to first understand, then master the powers granted to him.

Yes. Yes, he would learn. Such a wonderful, adept student he made. He needed only lower the barriers of his soul to his God, and he would learn _so very much_.

And so Rubicante did.

\- - -

Isolde was not a witch. It was rare for Mountainborn to hear the Greensong, much less to bear the witches' horns and see the elemental devils that whispered words of heresy into the ears of men—for her kin were as stalwart and mighty as the mounts themselves, and not so easily swayed. She did not weave fire and lightning, did not see the future reflected in still pools or hear the earth rumble tales of the forgotten past or soar on the singing winds.

Even here, in the village of Veldwyn high in the Greymounts, they spoke of Lady Wyldheart's crusade against the God-King. There were some who said she had called down the Wild Hunt. There were others—far from the ears of the devout—who whispered that she'd _led it herself._ That her title was not merely a product of delusional ego, as the Temple proclaimed; that she truly was _the_ Wild Heart the old tales foretold, channeling the Song's fury at mortal transgression, the one who would cleanse the world of man's foolish excesses. Taming the daughter of fire and water to power machinery, men and women kept like slaves in the factories and mines for the profit of their wealthy masters, no longer free to live 'neath sun and sky. Such matters seemed distant from Veldwyn—but the clergy renounced the heretics' sins against progress, nonetheless.

No. Isolde was not a witch. But Isolde saw much in her dreams, nonetheless. She saw darkness and falling stars and beasts of nightmare. She danced in a storm of frost and fire with a masked sorcerer. She whispered in the ears of kings. It was no crime against the Thirteen to merely dream of forbidden magic, for what man _chose_ her dreams? Much less a shepherd's daughter, destined to nothing grander than a lifetime of shearing, milking, churning, and cheesemaking.

Nonetheless, she spoke not of them—while she knew in her heart that she committed no heresy, Wyldheart's rebellion had left the Inquisition blood-hungry, and she well knew that they would not hesitate to brand her as a traitor if they had but the slightest excuse. Even in a village as remote as this, the Inquisitors came on circuit, ensuring the local church preached orthodoxy and no seed of rebellion had taken root. In fact, one had arrived the previous night, at the edge of dusk, and had immediately gone to rest from the long journey.

Isolde had, of course, taken the sheep out to pasture after the milking and did not intend to return to the village before nightfall. The inquisitor would have no way of knowing her dreams, of course, but best to not tempt fate. She hoped he would have moved on by then... or, failing that, have already retired for the evening.

She sat and watched the sheep, the sun warm on her skin, listening to them bleat and hoof at the grass. Something rustled in the brush. She rose to her feet, spear at hand. Likely a wild boar—one of the more common threats, and this season had been sparse enough that they felt emboldened to attack the flocks. Even a year ago she might have fled for help, but she'd come into her full growth over winter, and had been training at weapons-work with the town guard beside. Monster attacks were rare, these days, but it was the duty of every able man and woman to be ready to stand in defense—a mere boar was a trivial threat in comparison.

She braced her spear in the ground and waited. Another rustle, louder—then it was upon her, a near-blur of gray-brown, far too large to be any ordinary boar. It impaled itself on her spear, giving Isolde a far closer look than she'd ever wanted. No ordinary boar, but one Wyld-touched—a dire boar, an incarnation of the Song's ire, likely drawn by the inquisitor's presence. Dire creatures were far larger and stronger than any ordinary beast, with an uncanny intellect and a hunger for the flesh of man. It was, for the moment, impaled, stopped only by the crossbrace midway down the spear's shaft, but the metal and wood embedded in its chest seemed to do little more than anger it. It pulled back, yanking the spear from Isolde's hands; the shaft caught on a stone and _snapped._ The dire boar huffed and turned to the young woman; its expression nigh amused _._

Isolde did the only reasonable thing and ran for the village, reaching for the whistle that hung on a cord round her neck. She doubted she could outrun the dire boar, but neither could she stand and fight unarmed as she was. The whistle sounded, high and sharp—the village would be ready for the dire boar's attack, even if she could not outpace it. She heard it crashing behind her, and dodged to one side as it charged, for a moment wishing that she were as agile as one of the Forestborn; the strength of mountains did her little good in this situation. It passed her as she stumbled and once again found her feet, close enough that she could _smell_ its odd, pungent, herbaceous scent; she looked around, casting for some place she might use for safety. Mayhaps some crevice, or a tree that might be climbed—but she found nothing. Before her the beast banked and turned around—powerful and quick, but lacking agility. Isolde might be able to dodge again once, twice more... but long enough for aid to come?

If she didn't, she'd be in for a great deal of pain... at best. She readied herself for its next attack, blowing the whistle again as loudly as she could, then once more leapt to the side as it charged.

It moved with her, if a little slow—one of the tusks drove into her leg, the pain searing. She was half-aware of screaming as it threw her against a cliff-face, its tusk crimson with blood. Her blood. She fought to get up, knowing that she had no way of stopping it. No way of defending. This was no dream. This was no dream—and it was looking at her, lowering its head, starting to move—

Isolde raised a hand in response, and _remembered_ the dream. And something within her stirred— _power,_ searing cold and ancient—and she let it—willed it. _Help me._ And the power gathered in her hand—into a new spear—

It launched. The dire boar fell, impaled by a lance of pure ice, as long as Isolde herself was tall. She watched—numb with shock, with cold, with... whatever she'd just channeled—and then slipped into unconsciousness.

\- - -

The days and nights passed, with Urianger—Rubicante—at all times busy, it seemed. Practicing new magics. Communing with his god. There was ever more to learn, ever more to remember. Elidibus left him alone, at times, now. He was no prisoner; he was fully capable of stepping into the rift, and from there wherever he chose to go. But he was still mastering His gifts, and it was not yet His will that he act further. The moon was safe, practical—no risk of being found by someone he'd rather not explain himself to. And there were so many projects he'd scarce started on.

Of late, Rubicante had been experimenting with the applications of the power over flame that He had gifted unto him—for this, too, was the magic of Darkness, fluid and responsive to will and intent. And he approached magic, it turned out, in a very different way from the way Lahabrea had, according to Elidibus' observations of the results. He was trained in the most advanced arcane theory known to the Source. He knew the theoretical basis of both arcanima and astrology, with scraps of conjury and thaumaturgy and even the combination of the two practiced by red magi picked up by association— however, he was _not_ terribly familiar with the ancient magic of Creation that had, of course, served as the base for Lahabrea's understanding of the art, nor with Amaurotine magical theory. This difference in theoretical foundation caused some very interesting changes in how the magic responded. _Expectation shapes perception_ was a fundamental truth, although it was, in this case, not quite properly translated. In this case, _expectation shaped results._

And in this case, the result was a fire-based healing spell. He'd been inspired, of course, by the old tales, but was delighted to know it was possible all the same. He tested it once more, scratching lightly along his own skin with a Created blade—not deeply enough to truly wound, just enough to be healed—then focused fire into its most benevolent aspect, that which warmed and cheered and brought life. It burned along the cut, leaving his skin unmarked.

"That is quite impressive, Rubicante."

Rubicante turned, startled. He normally sensed when Elidibus returned from his other duties, but this time he'd been caught up in his spellcasting. "I cannot help but wonder if the spell would be nearly so effective were I not attuned to the aether of flame. Nonetheless, 'tis a means to heal without requiring the aid of tools, such as a planisphere, that may betray mine identity should I be glimpsed by one who might know of me."

"Quite the practical consideration. Although that does bring something to mind—I intend to soon call the Convocation together. There is much that we must discuss."

"It had been my understanding that Ascians primarily worked independently." Rubicante's head tilted as he considered this. "In pairs, at most."

"That is by necessity, not preference. We are spread thin amongst the Shards. That does not mean that we do not, at times, meet to coordinate our actions. Fledgling though you may be, you are fully entitled—and, for that matter, _expected_ —to attend the meeting and fulfill your duty." Elidibus said. "You will not be the only one who is relatively recently ascended and still mastering his powers, and your background will allow you to offer unique insight."

Rubicante nodded. It was a reasonable request.

"However, if you would kindly grant me leave," Elidibus continued, "I would request that you allow me to act as speaker—that is, the moderator of the discussion— for the time being. Presuming that you desire to retain that mundane aspect of your seat, you will need to learn Amaurotine debate etiquette, among other details, before you are prepared to do so. "

"I yield that role unto thee, Emissary."

"You will, of course, need to be properly garbed. As you probably ought to have been some time ago." Rubicante had Created new—clean—robes when he felt he needed fresh garments, given the lack of water on the moon, but they'd been simply a variant of his usual attire.

"I have been wondering when it would be appropriate for me to dress myself so. While the robe seemest standard, what of my mask?"

"You have rejected the title of Lahabrea; wearing his mask nonetheless would be a grave discourtesy to his memory. As the first to hold the title of Rubicante, your mask will be of your own design."

Rubicante nodded. "Do I have thy leave to Create such?" he asked.

"You do not require my leave. You _are_ the Abyssal Celebrant. The robes, the mask—they are yours by right." Elidibus brought his hands to the front, and in them Created a crystal—like to the ones Rubicante had witnessed in the recreation of Amaurot—and, following that, imbued it. "Use this Concept to guide the creation of your regalia. Your... unique dialect is enough deviation from the standard, even for one of the Sundered; to vary your robes, as well, would stress the bounds of good taste."

Rubicante nodded, accepting the crystal, and turned his focus toward it. His magic flowed along the veins of the Concept like water through a dry riverbed, the pattern encoded within providing guidance that would otherwise only be won through concentration and intense focus on the details of the robe. The aether spun around him, and he allowed the robes he'd previously Created to fade into it, conserving his reserves. And then he was suitably garbed. He looked down at the robe, then turned his hand, studying the claw. It was heavier than he'd expected, and he wondered how he was expected to manage any task that required particular dexterity with it on. Practice, perhaps.

"Wonderful." Elidibus practically _purred_ the words. "And now... have you thought about your mask?"

"I have done so." Rubicante set down the crystal, carefully, then focused His gift again on Creation, this time shaping his mask. Another predatory bird had seemed apt, considering the circumstance, and so he shaped his mask with the intent of mimicking an owl. A ridge around the eyes, mirroring the ring of feathers that surrounded the face of many such creatures. The nose extended into a beak (though flatter, more almond-like in shape than the hawk-like beak which graced Elidibus' mask.) Ear-like projections at the top, mimicking a tuft of feathers. He admired his work for a moment, then—exceedingly carefully, so as not to injure himself with the claws—placed it onto his face.

Elidibus considered him, somehow seeming even more pale than usual, and frowned deeply. "Perhaps I should have explained the cultural standards behind our masks, first. A full mask, such as the one you've Created, is a _funerary_ mask. To wear it means you consider yourself to be dead. It's... unsuitable for one of the Convocation."

Rubicante took the mask off again. "But a half-mask would be just as unsuitable, for it would openly reveal the most recognizable portion of my visage." He altered it slightly. Now it would expose his mouth and chin, but nonetheless still cover the sigil that marked him as an Archon. "Would this be acceptable?"

"Yes. Scarcely, but yes, considering—as you have made clear—your need to conceal your mark. While you could shape your own flesh once in a corporeal body to omit it—just as you could any other inconvenient physical feature— its appearance on your aetheric form indicates that you consider it to be a part of yourself."

Rubicante slipped the mask back on. It, like the clawed gloves, would take some getting used to; it obstructed his peripheral vision and was a touch stuffy. "Unukalhai wears a full mask. Such a choice impliest much, depending on the answer to a single question: who was it who chose the mask he was to wear?"

"Yes, it does," Elidibus agreed, rather flatly. "Until Hydaelyn's champion _once again_ broke the laws of reality as we knew them, we thought it impossible for the aether of the body to traverse from Shard to Shard; the soul and mind must first be separated from corporeal flesh. For an ordinary Sundered such ought to be impossible; for one bound to a Crystal of Light or Darkness, it is simple, but results in a state that the inhabitants of your Star—and most other Shards of it—would recognize as death, save for the Crystal preventing one's aether from returning to the Underworld." His eyes were fixed on the ground, somewhere off to Rubicante's left. "Unukalhai insisted on the full mask, feeling in his heart as if he had truly died alongside his world. I could offer him little succor beyond the promise that, once trained, he would never again have to helplessly witness another world falling to Flood... a promise we came close to breaking, nonetheless."

"A promise that I full intend to keep, though it was not I who made it." The necessity of Calamity was burden and tragedy enough without courting Flood as well.

"Wonderful." Elidibus nodded once. "Now that you are properly attired, I would have you introduced to the Convocation before we properly convene. If you would follow, we will be meeting in the Rift—the place where life and death meet. The place where you and I are both bound."

Ruibcante rose and followed him, stepping—for the time—out of the living world, and into one inhabited by Ascians alone.


	4. Appendix I: In Which There Is Tea, pre-5.2 version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elidibus discovers a lake, plays games with the pixies, and has a tea party with his old friend Urianger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have revised this chapter and the next following the release of 5.2 to incorporate new lore. The original is preserved here.

For a moment, Elidibus thought he'd found the source of the disturbance he'd been sensing. He cautiously lowered the aetheric shields just enough to let him _sense._ To feel the ambient aether. The overwhelming Light of the Empty numbed him, tempting the aether that made up his form to a rest without end. He swiftly studied the aether before he was forced to once more raise them against the power that had all but enveloped this Star, making note that he might need take a host if he intended to spend much more time on this particular curiosity. It wasn't a habit he favored—unlike Lahabrea, he'd never been able to entirely put aside his pity for the fragmented souls whose flesh they borrowed-- but there were times when circumstances demanded such extreme measures.

The further investigation of a peculiarity such as this just might be one of them.

Inexplicably, there was a _lake_ in the midst of the Empty—and his senses had confirmed his suspicions. Something had stirred the aether in this region, aspected it to water. It resonated; doubtlessly it would transfigure the stagnant aether the Star over in similar locations, and from there—in time— it would be as if the Flood had never happened, presuming that the process was, indeed, repeated with the other elements.

Oh, this had promise. And so he was left with two questions-- _Who_ and _how--_ and he suspected he knew the answer to the first. Of all the fragmented souls on this Star, he knew of one in particular that showed such potential... and who had quite a thorough theoretical grounding on what a Flood entailed. Elidibus had personally ensured his understanding, after all.

He lowered his shields once again, tracing out with the Echo this time along the flow of Water until he reached the source of this disturbance. He flinched at the overwhelming sense of Her accursed grace, nearly drowning out anything else His gift might have imparted. But then, in an area shadowed from the overwhelming Light, he found what he sought. Impressions. The crackling of parchment yellow with age, the heat of the sun on desert sand.

It was all the answer he needed. He turned from the aberrant lake and started to make his way back to civilization.

\- - -

It proved not difficult to find Urianger. There were few enough "elves" who spoke as he did and traveled in the company of the Warrior of Darkness, even if his source had (quite understandably) seemed to have mistaken the elezen for an ancient sorcerer. Quite the colorful tales they had to tell of him, and Elidibus could not help but wonder how distorted they had become in the telling—they said the blessing of the fey was on his tongue and that even the mighty Talos heeded his commands.

That left only the difficulty of reaching Urianger's home. The land in which he was said to reside was blanketed in a thick fog today, leaving only the shadowed hint of distant hills. The Echo whispered of life flitting somewhere in the fog, not too terribly far away; he chose to disregard it for now in favor of following the path... one that seemed quite long, now that he considered it. They'd said the home was just off the path... north? Or had it been east?

He scowled, realizing the _unnatural_ nature of the fog which enveloped him, and invoked the Gift. Reached out to the souls he sensed and _tugged_ at the aether which cloaked them.

A sweet laugh resounded as the fog started to clear. "Clever, to undo our spell. And your soul is a queer one, indeed. What is your name?"

Elidibus frowned, peering, seeing a shape vague through the thinning fog. Small, winged. "I am called Elidibus," he answered. "I've come to seek out a certain elf that I hope is known to you."

"Oh, that is not _your_ name, ancient one. But titles have power, too. Perhaps I'll keep yours~"

The Emissary stared them down. He remembered the Creation of pixies, the first one. An accident, that. A grieving parent, their soul crying out in a pain that so clearly resonated even now—even in the most glorious days of Amaurot, accidents had occasionally happened. (The one who then held the title of Emet-Selch—blessed by the Star with two children, herself—had retired within the year.)

The pixie stared back, undeterred. "And what's this you seek? An elf? How very curious. This used to be the land of elves... but they don't live here anymore. The Flood stole them, one and all, and we came in their place."

"This one is... different. His name is Urianger—we once worked together." Even if it hadn't quite ended the way the Emissary had intended.

"Urianger? You're one of _his_ friends? Oh, they're so much fun to play with! Maybe I could have _you_ trade clothes with someone."

The Emissary hesitated (and wondered if they were serious about the suggestion.)

"Well?" the pixie asked.

"I would hesitate to call him a _friend_." No. He wasn't entirely certain how to explain his relationship with the scholar in any simple terms. Not enemies, he hoped; even now he looked fondly back upon their lessons and debates (and how very often the two had blurred—at times it had reminded him so keenly of the days before the Sundering that his soul ached with longing.) How readily the man had absorbed the information the Emissary had offered and adeptly probed at it, inquiring and pulling until he'd fully understood each facet of it, then unflinchingly questioned it until he felt he knew the truth of it. But they did not currently stand as allies, unfortunately; in the end, Urianger's blind devotion—to his teacher, to his mortal companions-- had proven stronger than logic and reason. "I have an interest in his research."

"That sounds boring. All those musty, dusty, moldy books. We should play a game, instead!"

"That will not be—" he started to protest, only to find the pixie left him with no choice.

\- - -

Urianger had expected him.

The circumstances which had led to their current travails aside, the cards had been warning him of the coming balance between Light and Darkness for days, now. He was full glad that he had interpreted that as he ought to have, rather than in a more literal fashion that would, nonetheless, be more than reasonable on a Star beset with the conflict between the two, as this one was.

It had taken but a stern warning that the pixies _not_ attempt to play games with the man in crimson mask and robes of white to ensure a diversion was in place.

"Are you quite certain you'll be all right alone, Urianger?" Thancred was frowning. They'd both agreed that allowing Elidibus near the young woman Urianger suspected to be Ryne's dark counterpart (or—for that matter—near Ryne herself) would be folly. For some small mercy, the Ascians had a long-standing habit of poor communication, and Urianger could only pray that it carried over to this situation and that the Emissary was not aware of her present condition. The Night's Blessed were certainly both capable and willing caretakers, should she want for healing or protection, and Y'shtola had been more than happy to offer succor on their behalf.

"I am certain." Urianger smiled at Thancred, attempting to reassure him (knowing well that it would accomplish no such thing.) "Thou wouldst do well to remember that I spent nigh on a year in his presence—if intermittently— in the past. Had he any desire to seek retribution for mine actions regarding the Warriors of this Star, he would doubtlessly have already sought me out whilst the Champion and most of our allies were engaged in distant lands, unable to come to mine aid. I do not believe he intendeth harm unto me."

"What do you think he wants from you, then?"

"That, I know not." Urianger looked around the house. He'd managed to stabilize the developing auracite—now a shard barely the size of his thumb—enough that it could be sent to the Crystarium for safekeeping, along with some of the more sensitive research and documents he'd been working on. "I pray it is only to once again attempt to win me over, or mayhaps to draw what information that is possible from me." And in doing so also offer Urianger the opportunity to draw information from him. Elidibus was a fascinating man—intelligent, immensely knowledgeable and oft eager to share his knowledge—and Urianger often found himself regretting that they stood on opposing sides of this conflict.

Thancred reached up to pat his shoulder, his expression still one of greatest concern, e'en though he tried to cloak it. "Well, you'll have a chance to put your skills at deception to good use this time." His hand lingered. "I swear, I need to get my hands on more whisperweed."

"'Twould be a tool most useful to us. But have faith. I am full capable of handling myself." He pulled Thancred into a tight, if brief, hug—another vain attempt to comfort him. "I suspect this will be far more trying for thou than for me."

Thancred's expression left little room to doubt that he agreed. He looked at Urianger, seeming as if he wished to say something more, then after some seconds turned away. "I'll be in Slitherbloom if you need me. Please, don't hesitate to send word."

"Of course."

The pixies had, of course, explicitly defied Urianger's suggestion to leave the Emissary be. He was—when Urianger found him—staring at one of the bush-people with an air of utter dismay. (Their fate was most unfortunate, but freeing them was beyond Urianger's current capabilities. And no few had been changed in the midst of being overaspected by Light; to free them from the verdant curse would be only to allow the transformation to continue, should it be done before they had means to correct it.)

Urianger opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling the effervescent impression of fae magic at work, the word he was searching for slipping out of reach. One of their games, doubtlessly. "Emissary."

The Emissary turned to look at him. "Archon." His tone sounded distinctly surprised. Odd; doubtlessly he knew who he came here to meet. "It's been some time. You—those robes suit you well." No, those words were not spoken in ire; far from it. His sharpest concerns eased, Urianger turned to his next task—ending whatever game Sigun Ul had somehow coaxed Elidibus into.

"Thou hast unquestionably had thy fun, Sigun Ul. But I would now request a turn to 'play' with my _guest_. Pirthee, return that which has been borrowed, and we will be on our way."

"No. He _gave me_ his title. It's mine now." Sigun Ul looked at Uranger with an utterly _petulant_ expression.

"To bear a title is to bear _responsibility_ ," Urianger warned. "Thou wilt be full responsible for his duties, and left with little time to play."

The pixie scowled. "But—no time for play? Feh, I don't want it, then."

Elidibus looked distinctly relieved. "Thank you, Archon." He sounded most sincere. "If I may... I have a few questions for you about some phenomena I've observed. Do you have anywhere we could go to speak of such?"

\- - -

Elidibus had expected Urianger’s abode to be far neater. Stacks of books were scattered about the large main room like fallen autumn leaves. Urianger moved a stack off a chair—setting it on a nearby, mostly-clear table—and motioned for Elidibus to sit. "Pirthee, make thyself comfortable. Doubtlessly the pixies hath once more burdened me with their tricks—old, sodden leaves and even more of the pastries I so loathe. Nevertheless, 'twould be the highest insult to their hospitality to refuse these questionable gifts." He swiftly dragged another chair over—Elidibus wondered if he'd always been so elegant under the heavy robes—then came with a teapot that steamed fragrantly and a tray of what appeared to be turnovers, setting both in a clear area of the table

Urianger sat down, poured himself a cup of tea, then added a dollop of honey from a small crock before sipping it, making a disgusted face. "...alas, as foul as ever it was. Mayhaps thou wouldst be willing to share the burden? While distasteful, 'tis harmless."

Elidibus looked at the teapot and remaining empty cup, then back at Urianger, utterly perplexed. What was the purpose of this....? Some test?

Urianger looked back at him, clearly waiting for his next action.

Elidibus poured himself a cup of tea, added honey just as Urianger had, stirred, and sipped it, bracing himself. The flavor was light, floral, quite pleasant actually, and he realized in that moment the clever nature of this prank. He forced a wince to cover the urge to laugh. "Foul, indeed. I'm sorry that they keep pulling such a cruel trick on you. I'd be more than happy to help you drink this... leaf-water... while we talk." He took a turnover, breaking it open to reveal the bright crimson filling before tasting it cautiously. "Rolanberry jam... I wonder if they knew how I hated them?"

Urianger nodded solemnly, expression betraying no amusement whatsoever. "Vile, without question." He, too, took a turnover and settled back in his own chair to _not enjoy_ a pastry. "Now... might I inquire as to what observations brought thee here?"

Elidibus nodded. "I sensed a disturbance in the Empty, and—upon investigation—found that some of the stagnant aether of the Empty had been stirred back into motion. This has quite promising implications, and I can think of few minds so keen as yours. Know you anything about this phenomenon?"

Urianger looked at him, then took a long sip of the tea before he deigned to answer. "Yes. 'Twas my theory, proven true, that led to this development. Although with thine aims considered, it seemeth strange that thou wouldst find this a positive development."

Of course it was—if the Empty could be restored, then perhaps there was some hope for the Thirteenth to be restored enough that its aether—and, with it, the Shard of their God— could be Rejoined. "The First is, for the moment, no longer ripe for Rejoining. Stabilizing it is paramount."

"....before thy next attempt?" Urianger looked less than pleased at the prospect. Elidibus could hardly blame him, after all the effort he'd put into preserving it.

"It _must_ be done... as I've told you before, Archon. May I ask how you managed this feat?"

"'Twas simple enough. I needed only to see to it that the aether was absorbed by an aspected entity, then released back into the First in the correct place, according to the native aetherflows. The answer is one that thine own kind hath passed unto mortals: the summoning of Primals."

Elidibus frowned, looking at Urianger, sensing his Aether. He detected no taint on it, no sense that he'd been tempered, which meant that—while he was doubtlessly capable of such—he likely hadn't been the summoner. "Summoned by whom?"

"Hydaelyn's Champion, of couse." Urianger grinned softly. "After all, their soul is immune to the claims of Primals, and they _are_ our Eikon-slayer. Our primary objection to primals is their absorption of life-giving Aether, which—in this case—was instead our aim. So I watched from a safe distance as the Champion conjured and destroyed their own manifestations of the Primals they battled on the Source, and with each summoning converted a little more of the aether."

"That would correct some measure of the imbalance, but the elemental energy would still have been incredibly tilted toward what is—on the Source—called an umbral alignment. How did you overcome that?"

"I developed a device that stirreth energies around it toward the Astral. And, with this, I started a chain reaction that— I hope— should serve to stir the energy in like regions."

The theory utterly violated _several_ natural laws dictating the behavior of Aether—doubtlessly the Archon was aware of this. Yet the results were undeniable... which meant that his explanation was very likely a half-truth. But how to draw the rest out of him? Elidibus watched him as he sipped his tea. "Very well." And he reached out with the Echo—mayhaps His gift would reveal what the Archon did not.

> _the world was aflame, beset by nightmare made flesh, devouring, consuming; the screams of those who fled in vain, for where was safe at the end of all things?_
> 
> _ash in the air, the smell of burning wood and burning dreams as all came undone; what had cruel fate wrought upon those innocent souls who had known only peace and plenty?_

How? HOW? Those were not memories Urianger _could_ have! Elidibus scarce registered that he'd dropped his tea, that his talons now dug into the arms of the chair and the cup lay in pieces on the floor.

"Emissary--?" Urianger asked. His hand settled on Elidibus' shoulder, and Elidibus breathed deeply, fought to center himself.

"How?" Elidibus rasped, once he trusted his voice.

"Pardon?"

"You saw it. The end. How— you aren't _one of us_. You weren't there—"

"I was not. Yet I was given the opportunity to bear witness to it, or at least a reconstruction of such. Thy colleague was quite adept with aetheric constructs." Hesitantly, Urianger touched Elidibus' cheek, just below the mask. "Adept enough to create an illusion of thy homeland 'neath the waves of this Star, built on the skeletons of what little did remain. And in accepting his invitation to his lair did we come to bear witness to the recreation of the final days of a world not yet broken, and in doing so come to understand his aims... his and thine."

"And, despite understanding them, you defy them? You do not see how this is what _must_ come to pass?"

"I know well that thou art tempered, and that thou hast, regrettably, little choice in the matter. But what would thy brethren say, those who chose of their free wills to die so that others may live, if they knew thy schemes? To sentence twelve and two worlds and every life upon them to doom. To foment pain and strife repeatedly over thousands of mortal lifetimes, simply so that their gift _might_ one day be returned unto them? Speak, and truly: would they support thine actions, Emissary?"

"It was their desire that the world be _saved,_ Archon. Not broken into this mockery. While your sundered souls... some few of them, at least, have proven unexpectedly promising, it is only in the Ardor that we will restore the world that ought to have been, ere it grows too late. The mortal, sundered lives will end a few decades early, that's true. But your souls will endure, and know new life Rejoined as they always should have been. As will all lives that follow, and ever after will the world be whole."

"And how much knowledge will be lost? How many stories, how many memories?" Urianger sighed, turning away from him for the moment.

"No civilization is eternal. In time, all returns to dust. You fight the restoration of the universe over such ephemeral things, Archon, and I do not understand it."

"...and I wish I knew the words to explain in a way thou couldst understand, even branded by thy god as thou art." Urianger knelt and picked up the pieces of the teacup, careful of the sharp edges. Elidibus watched him, considering his next move carefully. A spark of an idea had come to mind... a way to resolve every problem the clever Archon presented.

"I'm sorry about the cup. And propose an experiment as way of apology." It was doubtlessly something Urianger would be interested in... and it was critical information, besides.

Urianger looked at him with a curious expression. "I beg thee to elaborate."

"I've long wondered if the Sundered had the _capacity_ for the magic of Creation, even lacking the raw aether. Not the bastardized adaptation used for the creation of Primals, but the true magic, as we used it then, as you doubtlessly observed."

"Learning such a technique would without question be in my interest, and I dare say it might serve to convince thee of my viewpoint should I succeed. What would be my source of aether for this feat?"

"I can supply it, Archon, if you're willing to trust me with such contact."

Urianger looked him over... frowned faintly, then nodded, his curiosity winning out over his caution. "What need I do?"

Elidibus moved to stand behind him, resting hands on his shoulders, at this close distance noticing that the chains and charms that dangled from him were embellished in his own colors—white and crimson. What fascinating symbolism the Archon's clothing held. "Hold the fragmented teacup in your hands and direct your attention toward it." He kept his voice low, even. "Close your eyes or do not, as you prefer. You will need to focus your mind _entirely._ A single stray thought or impulse will spoil the Creation. Breathe... steady, Archon."

Urianger nodded, his aether starting to steady. Elidibus reached out with his own aether, using the Echo to lower the boundary between their souls, and added to it. He wove his Dark into the honey-warmth of the Archon's personal aether—the magic of his god, the magic of Creation. And, once linked, he waited for Urianger to grow used to the feeling, to once more relax under his touch. Yes, he did have the capacity for great magics, despite his potential being stunted from what he should have had been. Excellent.

"There. You can draw on my reserves as easily as your own for the moment. Focus on the cup. On how it should be, how it _desires_ to be. Every piece in the correct place. Envision it, as clearly as you can, and then guide the aether to Create your vision..."

Elidibus felt the aether _tugged_ upon, and watched as it poured into the cup, the fragments levitating and floating into the proper places. Then the porcelain bonded, the cracks _healing,_ the small missing bits regenerating from pure aetheric energy. And so the cup was Rejoined. The Archon _was_ capable. He withdrew gently as Urianger stared at the cup in amazement.

Yes. Such promise... such _potential._ Such dangerous and useful knowledge. And all of it, for the moment, in the service of Hydaelyn's champion.

\- - -

Incredible. Urianger stared at the cup, now whole, and tried to not think about it too metaphorically. The pure, dark aether had been heady, intoxicating. A dangerous temptation. Yet... that he'd managed to cast such magic when even the Champion had not... "Does this not prove that we are more _capable_ than expected, Emissary?" he asked, delicately setting the cup on the table next to the half-full teapot. "Full capable of Creation, save for wanting for raw aether."

"It is evidence of _your_ potential, Archon, but not just any aether will do. Mine is replete with Dark energy. Astral energy, that of Creation itself. You would struggle at best to do the same with a more balanced aetheric well. What's more is that even that level of Creative potential is rare among the Sundered."

This hadn't been what Urianger had expected. He'd hoped for a lack of ire—this went far beyond 'lack of ire' and well into 'admiration.' "May I ask what such an experiment was meant to prove?" he asked. What was Elidibus' plan...?

Elidibus reached for him, carding talons ever-so-gently through his hair. Urianger tensed, not expecting this-- not knowing what to make of this-- and had just enough time to register an intense sense of foreboding before Elidibus murmured. "That you are _worthy_ of His grace."

All was Dark.

Urianger looked around in vain, knowing himself not blind only because the "darkness" proved to be a deep, inky violet, rather than the nothingness that lay behind closed eyes. He was suspended in it. Floating in it. For the first time, he found himself aware that he was _incomplete,_ ever-so-faintly conscious of something that felt almost akin to distant, faint stars—his soul's missing pieces?

Something called him, and—with nowhere else to go and no other guidance—he went toward it, finding himself drifting that way at a whim until he reached what seemed to be a sheer wall of dark crystal, barely discernable from the rest of the dark. He had a feeling that he should know—should recognize—but everything seemed strange, fleeting. As if this wasn't quite real.

He felt as if he were being watched. Or mayhaps inspected. An impression of surprise—he had not been expected?

And then pressure—his head—he grabbed it, wincing—

_Look. Learn. Remember._

_-_

> _"No! No, please don't take my son! Please!" A woman, standing in what was clearly an Allagan metropolis, before a soldier and a young adult. "He's all I have left. You can't take him—"_
> 
> _The soldier shook his head. "The draft order comes from the Emperor himself. I'm sorry, Ma'am."_
> 
> _A flash. The young man, now suspended in a strange metal tube. A man in a knee-length white overcoat checked a readout. "Subject KP-118-C vital signs excellent. Projected chance of successful augmentation eighty percent..."_

_-_

> _The dragon roared in agony over the eyeless corpse of their consort. Betrayal! Lies! How could they, after everything—the mortals—they would pay, they would pay—_

_-_

> _The knight followed behind his party, the rear guard. They were nearly out of the dungeon, the rescued captives safe, the sorcerer—though not defeated—forced into retreat. He watched as the commander worked on the door._
> 
> _And then... and then... he heard the sorcerer's voice silent in his mind._
> 
> _He shook his head. No—no—yet he was already unsheathing his sword, obeying the silent command. Kill—for his master—_
> 
> _They never saw it coming. And when it was over, the control broke. He died a free man..._

_-_

Tragedy after tragedy. Living nightmares. What pain mortals wrought, even in their short lives.

Urianger realized only several seconds after the last vision ended that it, in fact, had ended. His head felt as if someone had tried to drive a spike into his temples. What—what had that been— The Echo?

History, he suddenly _knew._ It had been history. Some of the Source, some of other fragmented Shards. Broken souls, playing out petty cruelties.

 _But I have seen generosity and beauty. I have known hope!_ his soul cried out. And, yes, the broken souls were capable of such things. So rare. And so quickly did the bearers of hope burn out

> _The great draconic Eikon roared, and with that roar brought Calamity. And from the ground rose a great bird of flame. It struck the dragon—pierced it—_

like a candle burned far too long. Mayhaps that would even be his fate—he, who chose to wear sigils of the night sky on a Star plagued by eternal Light. He who would follow Her Champion anywhere, even unto the depths of his own greatest fears... even unto the destruction of his star and all others, the inherent imbalance uncorrected, the corruption allowed to fester, broken souls cycling until they became wan and worn out like clothing worn to rags.

Destruction? The Star was—

—in danger, and the only way to save it was to _make it whole._

No. No, it wasn't—there had to be some other way—

There was no other way. The star must be made whole—

—no—

_The Convocation must be whole._

No. Not—not him, he was—

—so very _promising._ Intelligent, eloquent, clever, knowledgeable. Yes. Such potential, for a Sundered soul, and so loyal—alas, it had been the Light which found him first. The shadow reached out to caress him, and he tried to draw away—tried to recoil—but his body refused to move.

It was gentle, soothing. Not wicked. No sense of cruelty or malice. _He_ had been Created to protect, to sustain, to heal. _H_ e was a god of salvation, no matter what lies had been spun.

No need to fear. No need to fight the gentle, pervasive dark as it blanketed him and quieted his doubts, as a parent comforts their child.

Together, they could— they _would—_ heal even the Stars themselves.

_Look. Learn. Remember._

Urianger stirred and realized he was in his house. In the same chair. He blinked, blearily, as Elidibus pulled his talons away. The Emissary was clearly attempting (in vain) to hide that he was trembling with fatigue.

"What—?" Urianger started to ask, and only then realized that in his hand was a crimson mask. 'Twas strange to at once know one ought to be livid, yet feel only acceptance.

Elidibus looked at him, his tone apologetic. "Please, forgive me for not giving you more of a warning, Archon." He considered the mask. "Or should I call you by your new title, Speaker?"


	5. Appendix II: Traditions and Myths, Pre-5.2 Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elidibus and Urianger discuss recent events. The Warrior of Light discovers a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have revised this chapter and the prior following the release of 5.2 to incorporate new lore. The original is preserved here.

"I do wish thou wouldst have chosen a less contentious title, Emissary." Urianger peered at the mask, courting bitter memories, then poked at one of the fangs. "Thou knowest well our prior travails... and that this is not something I can hide from the Scions forever, or even for long. In sooth, any deception I might bring to bear will not last beyond a single encounter with Y'shtola. I fear this mask will make this all the harder for them to accept, if they can bring themselves to do so at all."

"It was His will that you be gifted that rank and title." Elidibus responded. "I merely presented you. It is, admittedly, what I hoped would come of it, and doubtlessly He was well aware of my assessment-- you are exceptionally well-suited to it, especially given that it could only be filled, at this junction, by one who was not one of His original summoners."

"Are there any others, currently ascended, who were not of the original Convocation?"

"Only lower-ranked Ascians at present, although I may be forced to select one to fill Igeyorhm's seat if her presence is required in the next decade or so. Few of her Shards remain, and the only one I am presently aware of is far too young at the moment." Elidibus frowned. "Unlike Hydaelyn, Zodiark does _not_ take children as His champions."

"He seemed... not unkind." Urianger frowned. It hadn't been... anything like he'd expected it to be. Wasn't anything like he had feared. Granted, he'd already been in an aetheric form, so he'd had no need to relinquish his flesh. And, while he was aware of His will in the back of his mind, he found himself not nearly so _influenced_ as he had feared, considering the observations of those who had fallen into the thrall of Eorzian primals—in fact, the faint sense of Him was oddly soothing, a point of stability. Of course, He was also far more skilled than any ordinary primal, his touch likely more subtle. Once again, the strange sense of dissonance—he knew, logically, that this ought to upset him, that he should feel betrayed. And yet, there was nothing but a lingering feeling of _rightness._ How long had he been fascinated by Ascians? On some level, had he truly wanted this all along...?

"I have a feeling that is hardly the extent of your thoughts." Elidibus reached out, stroking Urianger's cheek with the back of his fingers, claws curled away. It was comforting; Urianger leaned in without fully intending to. "I'm certain you're no small amount overwhelmed. It's a great deal to become accustomed to."

Urianger went back to staring at the mask. "It is... knowing what I am to do. What I will have to— who I will have to become. ...is it necessary that I keep the title?"

"Of Speaker, yes." Elidibus went silent, frowning, considering. "....I do not blame you for being hesitant to take on the title of Lahabrea, given his indiscretions." He hesitated all the more, then reached up to stroke Urianger's hair, with much the same air as one might approach a timid couerl kitten. It was not unpleasant—far from it, in fact. "When the world was whole, taking on the names of the originators of our positions had a symbolic purpose. It represented selflessness. Sacrificing all that you had, all that you were— even your own name— to serve the People. We were not rulers, in our positions. In fact, we were the servants of every citizen, working tirelessly so that the Star might thrive." His talons scratched ever-so-lightly along Urianger's scalp in a way that made him quiver, the sensation bolting down his spine. "While I would like to see you uphold the tradition, it would hardly be fair to demand such of you."

"What if I were to chose a new title? One taken from history, or myth, that would suit the role? This will be difficult enough for the Scions to accept without calling myself by the title of the one who did unto us such grievous harm. Nor does it seem fair to the Convocation to ask that they accept a novice who, nonetheless, claims for himself the title that was— until so very recently— held by one of those left unbroken by the shattering of the Star."

Elidibus looked down, his shoulders tightening under the white robes. "....very well, then, Speaker. Choose for yourself the title you will bear among the Convocation."

"I will consider my decision with all due care," Urianger said, solemnly, bowing his head. "And bear no lack of gratitude for thy understanding. I cannot imagine it is a simple thing..." He wasn't certain how to finish that sentence gracefully. Being the last of one's world? Seeing those who had been by your side so long that one could watch civilizations come and go like seasons in a mortal lifespan both perish in but a few scant years?

Granted, they had done all possible to coax Emet-Selch into backing down, and he had adamantly refused. Yet—despite that— he had clearly been holding back when he lashed out at the Scions, in light of the might he'd revealed before the Champion soon after. To one of his power, killing them would almost have been easier than the level of restraint he'd shown, knocking them back without serious injury. Actions that were, in retrospect, at odds with his words. Mayhaps the logic of Toqtani's clan on the matter of words and deeds was not so flawed as he had oft considered it.

"Not at all simple," Elidibus agreed, the weight of a thousand lifetimes in his voice, and Urianger wished only that he knew some way to ease some fraction of it. He looked at the Emissary, thinking the matter over.

"How are we to proceed from here? It is vital that this remain concealed from the Scions for as long as practically possible." Even though the thought of leaving them made his heart ache, he knew well his place was no longer with them—that he could not ask they accept this. (He knew that they would likely try. He also strongly suspected that it would pain them even more than a clean break would.) "They will doubtlessly take no small offense to thine actions, and with that do all possible to return me to their side. My present state will not go unnoticed; I fear that not even my best illusions could serve to provide protection from the sight beyond sight Y'shtola relies on. And they know well that I expected thy company."

"What of sending word that you have, as before, tricked me into believing you an ally, and that you will be in contact? It would not be entirely a lie, and they would-- I hope-- not follow you."

"'Twould buy time, if nothing else." This did little to quiet the lamentation of his heart, but it was _a_ plan, at least. "And then...?"

"There is much you need must learn, and you have no lingering memories to guide you. He has given unto you no few gifts, new powers you might call upon. I think teleportation is the best starting point. It is immensely convenient, and similar enough to teleporting to an aetheryte that you should be able to grasp it swiftly."

"And it will likely soon be called upon for us to quit this place." The thought filled him with no little regret. "I will pen the missive, as suggested, ere we begin the teaching thou intendest."

\- - -

Toqtani burst into Master Matoya's abode with an expression that made more than clear that _everything was not well._ She looked at the paper in her hand, then between Y'shtola, Ryne, and Thancred, then—after a moment of indecisive hesitation-- thrust the paper into Runar's hands, pointed at Y'shtola, and then at the door to the next room.

Runar looked at her, then at the paper, his head tilting slightly, perplexed. Then back at her. "You do know that—"

She looked at him sharply enough to cut him off, with an expression that made quite clear that this was a complicated situation and that, in this case, the words of an ally might be called for, then made a motion about her head that suggested a hood and ears, then another that suggested _very_ short.

"It's from Krile?" Y'shtola asked.

Toqtani nodded.

"And important to keep secret?"

Toqtani glanced at Ryne, who looked right back at her.

"You don't have to keep it quiet for my sake!" She reconsidered. "Or, um... you know what I meant. I can handle a little bad news—assuming it _is_ bad news--"

"Give me that." Thancred took the paper from Runar and read it, his hands tightening until it crinkled in his grip. He turned to stalk toward the door, only for Toqtani to step into the way. She looked at him with an expression that suggested he ought to know better.

Meanwhile, Y'shtola was also frowning. "Toqtani? You realize that I can read just as well as you can, perhaps better?" And, evidently, from some distance away. "I think this is something we _need_ to discuss before you go off to the rescue, Thancred, particularly in light of Urianger's recent missive."

Thancred frowned, then relented, going back to a chair to sit heavily.

"What happened?" Ryne frowned. "We got the note earlier that he was going to go spy on the Ascian."

"And then Krile sent a message that the bond between his body and soul was broken." Thancred looked distant, as if he wasn't quite processing this.

"Wait, doesn't that mean his body—" Ryne's eyes had gone wide.

"He's not... his body isn't _dead,_ although without intervention it wouldn't last long. The Ironworks believe they can source a stasis pod from one of our allies—that's a type of machina that puts someone in a state much like hibernation—which means we have time. It'll keep his body alive. But it means that getting his soul back into it will be much more difficult, even compared to the rest of us." If at all possible. "Which means that— quite likely— he wasn't in Elidibus' good graces, as he believed himself to be, and he needs help." The _if it isn't too late_ was unstated. It didn't have to be.

"Or, alternatively..." Y'shtola was frowning, as well. "If Krile's message was written first, he _knows_ something is wrong and wanted to keep us from worrying by giving us a plausible excuse for being out of touch. Don't give me that look. You _know_ he has lied, more than once, despite grievous consequences in a vain attempt to spare us pain in the past. I'd hoped he'd learned his lesson this time."

Toqtani looked at her flatly, her thoughts on the matter of Urianger's words self-evident. She thumped her chest, then motioned toward Y'shtola, then motioned in a way that suggested a dome, then opening a book.

"Of course we're going to investigate the last place he was seen," Y'shtola said, coolly.

"Shadows guard you, Master Matoya." Runar all but purred her name. Thancred looked at her, then down at the floor.

Then Toqtani pointed at Thancred and Ryne (and cleared her throat, the _sound_ startling Thancred enough to get his attention.) She moved her hands over her horns as if putting on a hood, patted her arm and pantomimed thumping a staff against the floor, then pointed to the two missives.

"Right. He might have some ideas." Thancred still seemed rather displeased.

"And even if he doesn't, maybe his mirror might be able to show us what's going on." Ryne reached up to hold Thancred's hand. "Have faith. That's what Urianger always told us, right?"

"...right."

Finally, Toqtani pointed to Runar and then to the room where the mysterious girl yet slept. She stood at attention and motioned as if holding up her shield.

"Of course, Warrior! The Night's Blessed will ensure no harm comes to her... who is she, anyway?"

Toqtani shrugged.

"Something definitely happened here." Y'shtola frowned. The lingering dark energy here was so dense that she struggled to distinguish the more subtle aether of other objects in the room, though Toqtani, at least, was as brilliant as she ever was on the Source (and, thankfully, no more brilliant than that.) "I haven't seen energy of this sort since I investigated the chambers the Warring Triad had been contained in... in fact, it's disturbingly similar. I wonder if this energy is what broke the connection?"

Toquani frowned at a pair of chairs and picked up a teapot—deliberately sloshing the contents to demonstrate that it was partly full—then frowned and pointed out spilled tea on the floor, the wood swollen from the lingering moisture, then the two teacups—one empty, one partly full—and a plate with a half-eaten rolanberry turnover next to a basket still partly full of untouched turnovers. She broke one open and smelled it, then nibbled it as if to test it before taking an enthusiastic bite.

"Strange. They sat down to have tea, so it was, at least, initially a peaceful meeting. Then something happened and the tea spilled, and they never finished it, nor took the time to clean it up... but not a fight. No signs of struggle. Not so much as a single sheet of paper is out of place." Y'shtola kept investigating, heading back into Urianger's quarters. This, too, was mostly undisturbed. The aetheric manipulation equipment had been sent to the Crystarium for safekeeping, of course. But his spare robes were still hanging neatly on their hooks, the bed neatly made. "The bedroom is absolutely undisturbed," she said, once she was back in the common room.

Toqtani frowned, chewing on her turnover. She looked around—exaggerating the motion to make it clear she meant it as a directive—then held her hand palm-up before her (the remaining turnover balanced on top) and used the other to "draw" a card.

"You're right... I don't see his planisphere, either. Seems to make it all the less likely he was taken against his will, if he had the time and liberty to retrieve his focus. If not for the missives and the lingering energy—and the fact that he didn't finish his tea, which is utterly unlike him— I'd say he'd just gone out for an afternoon stroll."

Toqtani sighed and finished her snack.

"More questions than answers, indeed. We should go to the Crystarium and let them know what we've seen. And contact Alisaie and Alphinaud, for that matter. They deserve to know about this."

\- - -

"Ne'er did I realize the moon was so large, set like a pearl amongst the diamonds of the heavens." Urianger gazed upon the First—Norvarandt was at this juncture faced away from them, and the sheer white of the Empty made it seem almost like unto a second sun in the sky. "Nor so desolate, radiant as it is in the night sky."

"The moon was never meant for life... only as His prison. That it reflects the light of the sun is, more than anything, merely a cruel echo of its purpose." Elidibus, too, regarded the world below them, the Speaker as a shadow before him, tall and thin and clad in dark robes, golden stars dancing upon them.

Urianger looked at him, then back at the lunarscape. "I am reminded of an ancient legend that I have spend much time pondering, this past day. It is said to take place during the Fifth Astral Era, and there is some evidence that there is some historical truth to it.

"'Tis said that an honorable prince of Amdapor—one who bore gifts that most strongly suggest that he was, in sooth, one of Hydaelyn's chosen—was ordered to journey unto Nym on a allegedly diplomatic mission. Unbeknownst to him, the offering of peace he bore was in fact a weapon; as he entered the town square, it was unleashed, and he found himself surrounded by the dead, every one killed by the twisted gift he had unwittingly delivered."

Elidibus smiled. "Ah, yes. I remember this one. It is, indeed, rooted in historical truth. Do go on—it's interesting to see how time has corrupted the tale."

"Questioning the throne and filled with regret, the prince surrendered his title and quested in search of redemption. And after no few travails, he found it—becoming the first knight to weave the magics we would now consider conjury into his art, and in doing so becoming the first paladin. Having gathered allies and forgiven himself, he returned to his homeland, only to discover the truth—that the king had been replaced by a powerful fiend of the elements." He frowned. "Which I suspect to have been a primal?"

"He was." How very astute Urianger was.

"And his brother, who—it is said—was consumed by a spirit of hatred from the moon?"

"One of Lahabrea's projects." And the other time his host had escaped. Oh, how Lahabrea had _hated_ that.

"I suspected so." Urianger frowned. "Then thou knowest well how the tale ends. But the part that has caught mine attention is the stories of the archfiends—the primals, if I must be precise—that the prince and his allies fought. One among them is described as honorable, just, even merciful in some of the looser retellings. Given that my position brings with it an affinity for flame, and my benevolent intent even as I fill this role, it seemest fitting that I take from him my title."

"Yes. I remember him... I think he would have approved of your decision to carry on his legacy." Elidibus smiled. "As did history remember him—while the original summoner, of course, did not survive, his legend persisted, though corrupted by time and calamity alike. His spirit of justice and honor was preserved in the primal you know as Ramuh."

"All the more fitting, with that considered." Urianger looked back at the First, then out at distant stars. "Henceforth, while acting in service of the Convocation, I shall be known by the title of Rubicante."

"By His grace, may it be so." Elidibus sensed no rejection from Him, and so was it done. Urianger stood silently, clearly lost in thought.

"You'll likely want for rest," Elidibus murmured. "You've had quite the eventful day." Though, technically, Urianger's aetheric body did not _require_ sleep to function, he presumed it did and so he still felt the need for it. And the period of still and quiet would help balance him, give his aether time to settle into the new flows; therefore, Elidibus saw no reason at the time to correct his misconception.

Urianger nodded. "Eventful it has been. But I doubt the moon to be replete with comfortable beds."

"It is not, but I can Create for you an appropriate place to rest. We are entirely safe here." With a little searching he found a hollow shielded from the direct light, and a canopy over it provided even more shelter, so that he might sleep without being disturbed by the planetlight. And within he conjured a tarp to keep moon dust out of the bed, then a nest of soft cushions and blankets to rest within.

Urianger headed for the nest Elidibus had conjured for him with a quiet word of gratitude, divesting himself of his jewelry before crawling into it, burrowing under the blankets and curling up. He drew one of the pillows to his chest and lay still.

Elidibus did not often make rash decisions. And—admittedly—the thought of converting Urianger to His service had been in the back of his mind for some time, now. But he hadn't gone to Il Mheg intending to make the Archon His. It had just seemed right; perhaps His will at work. Zodiark didn't speak to him anymore—at least not in words—but at times, yet, in impulses and ideas. It was worrying, that perhaps He was growing weak after his long captivity... that mayhaps they had taken too long, presuming eternity lie before them to complete their plans—

(And now he stood alone. There was no more _them_. For the others, eternity had been cut short by a blade of light.)

He returned to the shelter and listened. Urianger's breathing was far from even—it caught, hitching. Muffled. He reached out with the Echo, lowering the barrier around his soul.

No clear memory, just emotion. _So, so very lonely. He would never see them again—would never be able to tell them—_

(...he would never see them again.)

This was his fault, wasn't it? He'd done this to Urianger—pulled him away from them so suddenly. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. And it was... for his God. For the Rejoining. But it had _hurt_ him, and would hurt all the more in the coming days. Urianger had lost his world, as certainly and completely as Elidibus once had. And he had no one—not even a pair of particularly eccentric co-workers for company. Not yet. In time, perhaps, he would warm to the Convocation, to his new allies, but Elidibus knew it would be a long journey.

_He has you._

Elidibus hesitated. He'd been the _cause_ of Urianger's pain. The one who had imposed this fate upon him... even if it had been his god's will, his god's decision, in the end. But didn't that mean he was all the more responsible for him? His fledgling. So very brilliant, so very optimistic and creative.

He hesitated, then approached the shelter. Urianger was still wrapped around the pillow, his face buried in it. "....Archon?" Elidibus murmured.

"Pirthee—I am well. I need not thy attentions—" He was trying to keep his voice even, and mostly succeeding. "Leave me."

"I can't. Not right now." He hesitated, then dismissed his gloves, adjusted his robes with a thought, changing the gold accents to a goldthread embroidery—keeping the same patterns, but now soft to the touch.

Urianger didn't respond, his breathing deep and ragged.

"....I'm sorry," he whispered. And he was. He'd never meant to cause him such sorrow. "Please... allow me to take care of you. I know I cannot truly remediate this—His gift cannot be rescinded. But you need not be alone."

(He didn't want to be alone.)

That only served to push Urianger over into outright sobbing. _He was making it worse._ Emotions were so fickle, so _confusing._ Elidibus sighed and hesitated, then—slowly, carefully—lay an ungloved hand against Urianger's back and rubbed in slow circles, trying to soothe him. Urianger tensed, then pressed into his hand, although it seemed to do naught to quiet him.

Maybe he wanted for more. Slowly, cautiously, Elidibus lay down beside him, then—when he did not protest-- gently gathered the unresisting elezen into his arms. "I am here. If it helps you, I am here." He felt Urianger curl into him, burying his face against his shoulder, long arms wrapping around him. Elidibus held him, praying fruitlessly for enlightenment—for some insight on how to _fix_ his fledgling's broken heart. Stroked his hair, his back-- even long after he quieted-- until he felt the other man's breathing grow deep and steady, felt his body grow heavy and limp in his arms. And even then he stayed, focused on the elezen's steady breaths, monitoring the slow flow of aether through his form. He would be surprised to realize he'd somehow fallen asleep— as napping in an aetheric body was a habit he had never acquired— when he woke some hours later.


End file.
